


What's Your Story

by fakiagirl (unnecessary), iggycat, Zeplerfer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boss/Employee Relationship, M/M, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1868193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unnecessary/pseuds/fakiagirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/iggycat/pseuds/iggycat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeplerfer/pseuds/Zeplerfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a whim Arthur applies for an internship at a publishing house halfway around the world. There he gets a new lease on life and he meets someone who offers him the change he's been looking for. Co-written with the amazing Fakiagirl (even chapters two and four) and the wonderful Zeplerfer (even chapters beginning with six).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Iggycat A/N: I am very excited to announce this new collaboration that will be a joint effort between myself and one of my favorite fanfic writers, Fakiagirl (who I've linked on my ff.net profile and you should definitely check out). We will switch off writing chapters, mine being from Arthur's perspective and hers from Alfred's perspective. On behalf of both of us, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing (And neither does Fakiagirl haha.) Rights go to the respective owners. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

I'm not entirely sure if I was allowed to have a mid-life crisis at only 26 years old, but I guess I was always rather precocious **.** My first word was not a word at all but a sentence, "Mummy likes tea," and my mother swears to the fact that I learned to walk in a day, bypassing the process of crawling entirely. By five years old I was reading the equivalent of what a student in Year 7 might study, and I'd promptly fallen in love with literature. Thereafter I took advanced English courses in secondary school and college and eventually graduated from university with a degree in English literature. I was lucky and had found work quickly as a copy editor for a home and gardens magazine based out of Manchester. It wasn't exactly what I wanted but everyone had to start somewhere. I worked tediously, editing stories about the perfect duvet to match lavender walls, and continuously double checking the spelling of kaufmanniana and odontoglossums just to be perfectly sure. The job paid well, but I'd be lying if I said I was completely content. I wanted more than to read about how to pot flowers and the best method for arranging furniture to maximize space. I wanted to advance my career, to travel the world, and I needed something much more interesting in my life. Little did I know my life was about to get _much_ more interesting.

"Ah, Arthur, yes, please sit down," my boss, Mrs. Spalding, a round woman with a reddish nose and graying hair spoke to me over the top of her computer monitor. She was the managing editor of the magazine and ultimately had the last say on what was published.

I pulled the door to her office closed behind me and uneasily took a seat in a very uncomfortable plastic chair. As nice as Mrs. Spalding was, no one really wanted to enter her office alone. A venture into her tidy little workspace meant one of two things. She either wanted your personal opinion on a piece, which doesn't sound horrible, but I can assure you it was. You would sometimes be confined to her office for hours picking apart the pieces of an article that didn't even bear any real importance. But of course, the only other reason she would call you in was much worse.

"How long have you been here, Arthur?"

I knew she already had the answer to the question but she hadn't asked it in a condescending way.

"Three and half years," I answered crossing my right leg over my knee. It was best to act casual, or so I thought.

"Ah that long, really?" She smiled and finally looked away from her computer screen. "Did you know I have a granddaughter about that age? She'll be four in a few months."

It was mid March and for a moment I pondered when the child's birthday might be. May? June perhaps? I smiled back at Mrs. Spalding hoping it looked genuine enough.

"That's lovely," I replied, not knowing what else to say. She returned my smile but then looked away.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm sure you're much more interested in why you're here." She'd guessed correctly. I let out a tense laugh in agreement, but my nerves had shown through. Mrs. Spalding frowned a bit and her chubby face seemed to redden to match her nose. She shuffled through a stack of papers, pulling out a few and looking back at me.

"Arthur, you know the economy's been in quite a slump lately and the company's had to make some very hard decisions."

I knew what was coming.

"You're a great worker, Arthur. I've never seen a more brilliant editor, but," she paused and offered a sad smile as some type of concession. "We can no longer afford to keep you on. I'm very sorry."

She handed me some paperwork and continued to praise me to assure my pride wasn't overly damaged.

The 'brilliant editor' had two weeks to find a new job.

* * *

However, my mid-life crisis hadn't begun at that point. It didn't start as I packed the contents of my cubicle into cardboard boxes, or as the two week mark approached and I realized I would have no job to return to the following Monday. No, my mid-life crisis started on a sweltering day in July, four months after I'd been pulled into Mrs. Spalding's office.

"Arthur!" my manager barked at me and I had to fist my empty hand to resist biting back a nasty reply. "You're at the register today. Get your arse up there." I dropped my cigarette and stomped it out with my heal. Smoking was something I'd stopped but picked up again recently due to stress. Nicotine was heaven for the nerves.

I was working at Asda, as I'd been unable to find any type of editing work. For three and a half months I'd looked desperately, searching not only in my current home of Manchester but in London, Edinburgh, Liverpool, Leeds, anywhere that might house some sort of publishing house. In all that time I'd gotten myself only two interviews, neither of which resulted in a job. I slowly started to lose hope, and in late June I started working at the local grocer because I was running out of money and needed to support myself. So that's how I wound up walking up to the register, a disgruntled mess of a person who I doubt Mrs. Spalding would even recognize.

A man in business attire walked up to me and placed a frozen meal and lemonade on the counter. I scanned both items and tried to ignore the way he was looking me over. He was judging, I knew he was. No doubt he was thinking that I was some useless scum that had dropped out of secondary school at 14 and never dreamt of going to university. Why else would a 26 year old still be scanning frozen tikka masala? That was the point at which my mid-life crisis began. As I bagged the items and said "£2.75," I also involuntarily mumbled out, "What am I doing with my life?"

The man handed me some coins and shook his head as he walked out of the store.

* * *

That night I sat on the sofa with my laptop scouring the internet for hours. I must have checked every city, town, and village in the United Kingdom, and still no one was hiring. It was extremely frustrating and it got to the point where I was typing "what should you bloody do when there are no fucking jobs available?" into yahoo answers. I never expected to actually find a reasonable response.

_There are a few things you can do if you can't find a job in your field..._

I scrolled past some of the advice that suggested going back to school, trying a slightly different type of work, waiting it out, etc. But then I came across something else.

_You might also want to consider looking into paid internships. These may not pay very well at first but they could land you a job at a well-to-do company._

I'd never considered an internship before. Of course I'd taken part in a few back in university to learn the tricks of the trade but I hadn't stayed on with any of the small firms I'd worked for. I guess I'd just never thought of an option that was usually associated with those new to the trade.

I opened a new tab and in the search bar typed out 'paid internship at a publishing company.' Out of curiosity I clicked on the first result, an internship as an associate editor at Golden Gateway Publishing, a company I'd never heard of. I glanced over the job description and was pleasantly surprised at the work it entailed. It was essentially my ideal job. I made sure to check the skill requirements of the position which I most certainly met with the exception of the "ability to learn and understand new technologies quickly" criteria. But aside from that, the position seemed perfect. I'd been about to click to download an application form when I realized I hadn't even checked what part of the UK Golden Gateway Publishing was based in. The answer to my query was that the publishing house was not based in the UK at all but in San Francisco. San Francisco, as in, California, United States of America.

I'd been stupid to blindly look at an internship without even checking where I'd be working. I was smarter than that, and I knew it. How could I have made such a trivial mistake? Deflated, I nearly closed out the tab holding the position, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. The job sounded so lovely, why did it have to be halfway across the world?

I bit my lip and looked away from the screen. But what was stopping me? A mediocre flat, a few sentimental items. I had nothing in England. My family was already spread out across the country and my brother William had even moved to Melbourne only two or three years ago. Why couldn't I do the same?

I pulled up a new tab and googled some pictures of San Francisco. I'd say it took me about eight minutes of looking at photos of the Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman's Warf, and Lombard Street to fall in love with the city. It took nine minutes to decide to download the internship application, and ten minutes to make a decision that would change my life.

* * *

Two weeks passed with no reply from Golden Gateway. I tried to shake it off, after all it was unlikely that I'd receive a response, but still I was disappointed. I had the credentials, I had the enthusiasm, the talent, and I wanted the position. Every day I spent bagging groceries just reminded me how much I truly wanted a change in my life.

It was late one evening after the usual rush of people coming in to purchase ready-to-eat dinners that my mobile buzzed in my pocket. I sighed, figuring it was one of my brothers. Steven had said he'd be coming up to visit at some point over the summer but never gave me an exact date. _Brilliant_ , I thought to myself, planning how I was going to get to the train station to pick him up without a car. By the time I unlocked my phone, I'd decided on taking a cab and dumping the fare on my brother. But it was at that point that I discovered I hadn't received a text message, but a single email in my inbox. It was from an Alfred Jones, someone I'd never heard of.

Cautiously I pressed to open the email, hoping it wasn't a virus. My eyes widened as I scanned the text and I couldn't help but let loose a small smile. Jones was from Golden Gateway Publishing! He was impressed with my resume and wanted me to come in for an interview. I instantly started to type a reply, thanking him, and asking if there was any way we could do the interview over the phone. My mood had improved tenfold and for a good five minutes I just stared at my screen waiting for a reply, not even noticing the elderly woman who had started to load things onto my conveyor belt and who was losing patience as I failed to do my job.

* * *

Three days later I was sat in front of my laptop eagerly awaiting a call from Mr. Jones. He'd suggested a Skype interview rather than a phone call simply because he thought it might be more personal that way. I'd never used the program before, but I assured him I'd download it and that I was looking forward to the interview. In reality I was scared out of my mind that I would do something wrong and obliterate my chances of getting the job, but he needn't know that.

So there I was at my kitchen table in a suit jacket and tie. I was only wearing my briefs on my lower half, partially because it was more comfortable than trousers but mostly because my flat felt like a furnace in the middle of July. But regardless it didn't make much of a difference since my upper half looked dapper and that's all Mr. Jones would see.

I twiddled my thumbs waiting when finally I heard the strange tone that indicated an incoming call. Hastily, I pressed the answer button and waited for the black screen to display Alfred Jones, but it never did.

"Hello?" said a confused voice on the other line. He sounded younger than I expected.

"Yes, hello. Mr. Jones?"

"Alfred. Call me Alfred," the man said and a laugh emanated from the dark screen. There was a brief pause as I faltered and failed to find any words. "Can you see me, Arthur? Because I definitely can't see you."

I flushed, grateful that the man halfway round the world could not see it.

"No, I can't. Did I do something wrong? I'm terribly sorry if I did."

My mind started spinning at a mile a minute. I'd done something wrong already, just in the first 30 seconds of the interview. Fuck! There went my opportunity.

"Did you click 'answer with video'?" Alfred asked, but he didn't sound hostile at all. I bit my lip and answered.

"I can't recall. I'm a bit nervous so I might have accidentally pressed the wro-"

I was cut off by another laugh and for a second I was worried that Alfred thought I was technologically incompetent, which was not completely true.

"Don't worry about it, Arthur. We can do the interview like this. You initially wanted a phone conversation anyway, right?"

I nodded but upon realizing he couldn't see the action I muttered a:

"Yes. Thank you for your patience Mr. Jones."

"Alfred."

I cursed internally, wondering why Alfred even kept me on the line after so many screw ups.

"Oh yes, I'm sorry-"

"Hey Arthur," Alfred cut me off again and I fell silent. "Can you do something for me?"

I raised a brow not having the slightest idea where this was going.

"Yes?"

"Alright, can you relax? I want this to be as painless as possible, 'kay? I wanna be friends, not the scary boss figure that I'm pretty sure you're picturing in your head."

To be honest I was startled by just how casual Alfred was being but I agreed and he let out yet another chuckle.

"Great, so since we're friends why don't we start off by learning a bit about each other? I'll go first."

For about six and half minutes I listened as Alfred quickly summarized his life for me. He was born and raised in Berkeley, right outside of San Francisco. He took several advanced English and science courses in high school but his real passion was history. Alfred worked diligently through those four years and that eventually culminated in an acceptance to Stanford where he majored in the subject he loved so much.

"Stanford was perfect because it wasn't right at home, but it was still close enough that I could go home on the weekends or for an afternoon if I had the time," Alfred had said. "Eventually my parents moved down to L.A., but when I graduated I decided I just couldn't leave this place."

I was fascinated by Alfred's story and wanted to hear more, but before I knew it, it had become my turn to talk.

"So what about you? What's your story?" I could almost hear Alfred smiling on the other end. I think listening to him talk about his life made me feel more comfortable in his presence, or at least the presence of his voice.

"Well, first off I'm from England," I started, and this time when Alfred laughed, I didn't feel so nervous. "I grew up in a little town called Wooler up north."

"Oh cool is it near Liverpool?"

"A bit farther up I'm afraid." Thinking fast I added, "Do you know where Newcastle Upon Tyne is?"

There was a half a second pause before I heard chuckling on the other end.

"I'll take that as a no," I said and found myself grinning.

Alfred drew in a breath before he responded.

"I really need to brush up on my British geography."

After that I found it incredibly easy to talk to Alfred. I told him about my family, my three brothers and what it was like being the youngest. I explained about going to the University of Manchester for schooling and I told him about my job at the magazine and being laid off due to budget cuts. And in between my reminiscing, Alfred entertained me with commentary and tidbits of his own life. The whole conversation felt much more like a chat with a friend at the pub than a job interview.

"You do not have a record signed by Paul McCartney. You're pulling my leg, Alfred."

"No, I swear it's true. My dad had connections."

"Ah, so _that's_ how you got into Stanford," I joked and Alfred grunted thousands of miles away.

"Hey that's not true! I didn't have any help getting in there. It was all me."

I smiled and gave into his pleas, shushing him.

"Hush, you might wake the neighbors with your whining. It's late here you know," I replied glancing at the clock and being shocked at just how late it really was. "Oh my. Have we really been talking for nearly two hours?"

"I could talk for another two. It beats doing paperwork," Alfred laughed and then sighed. "But if it's late there we can wrap it up."

"Well it's half past eleven. Do you think we could finish the interview in the next half hour? Or would you prefer if we rescheduled it to a later date?"

"What, no. Arthur, don't worry about it, the interview's over."

In that moment my heart sank. I thought the conversation had been going well but with just those few words Alfred dashed my hopes.

"I mean there's no need to continue. Your qualifications are impeccable, I set this whole thing up with every intention of hiring you. I just wanted to make sure you weren't an asshole or anything like that."

I didn't know what to say, so I mumbled the first thing that came to mind.

"So I have the job then?"

Alfred let out another one of his breathy laughs.

"Yes! Pack your bags, Arthur, you're moving to San Francisco!"

I needed to find my passport.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fakiagirl here! I'll be writing the even chapters, which are from Alfred's perspective.
> 
> We got a couple of comments about Arthur being from Northern England and his accent because of it. Thanks for letting us know! I've listened to several YouTube videos of people from Northern England, and I really didn't have that much trouble understanding them. Alfred is occasionally given a Southern drawl in fanfiction while his "canon" voice is more Midwestern, so we're also giving Arthur a slightly different accent than his dub in the anime. As for his dialect, he has lived in some other parts of England, so perhaps he's lost some of it.
> 
> We hope you enjoy!

I didn't grow up in San Francisco, but it felt like I did. My family lived in Berkeley, and my friends and I would go across the bay whenever we could. My first memory of San Francisco isn't of the Golden Gate Bridge, it is of the Bay Bridge, which lies so close to the surface of the bay you feel like you are driving on water.

I never really thought about what I was going to do when I grew up. I knew what I  _wanted_  to do: be an astronaut, or a scientist, or maybe a lawyer. By the time I graduated from high school, I also knew where I wanted to do it: San Francisco. I had fallen in love with everything, from the steep streets to the fog that would come in off the ocean.

In college, I switched from major to major, torn between the desire to do something amazing—go to the moon, begin a tech startup—and do what I loved. My first history course decided for me, and soon I was preparing to enter my senior year as a history major.

Though I still had no idea what I wanted to do, anything having to do with literature had never occurred to me. Golden Gateway Publishing, then, seemed liked a strange choice for the first big company I worked for. "Big" is relative, as I found out when I walked in for my first day as a summer intern. It was a small, specialized place that had started out by publishing thin volumes that only made it onto the small press shelves of local bookstores. By the time my internship ended, it was beginning to make a name for itself.

I graduated from college, and while I was applying for jobs like crazy, Golden Gateway called me and offered me a part-time job. Part-time turned into full-time, and soon I was hired as an editor.

Three years later, I took a chance and decided to hire a man named Arthur from the UK.

* * *

 

It was like most Monday mornings: a little cold, a little foggy, and a little too early. I walked in the door of Golden Gateway Publishing holding a cup of coffee and stifling a yawn. The bell over the door tinkled as it closed behind me. "Hey, Gilbert," I said absently to the secretary.

"Hey, Alfie," he said with a grin. This was followed by an enthusiastic  _cheep, cheep!_  from the yellow budgie on his shoulder.

I grinned back at it. I had always had a soft spot for animals. "Hello to you too, Gilbird."

Gilbert, with his white hair and startling red eyes, and the bright yellow bird on his shoulder made quite a pair. On his first day of work, Gilbert had walked in the door with the bird in a cage, sat behind his new desk, and opened the cage so the bird could sit on his shoulder. Despite my fellow editors' complaints (which mostly took the form of demands from Elizabeta and pointed looks from Roderich), Gilbird had not gone back in the cage since.

"Do I have any mail?" I asked.

"Nope."

"Cool. See you later." As I walked into the back of the building and down the hall that led to my office, I felt something niggling at the back of my mind. Wasn't there something special about today? Not able to remember what it could be, I shrugged and set down my laptop case on my desk. It was time to get to work.

Despite my attempts to concentrate, my mind kept wandering back to the cute British guy I had interviewed a month earlier. By "cute" what I really meant was . . . well, everything. It wasn't just his accent (which I kept replaying in my head); it had felt so natural to talk to him, like I had known him for years. "It's just because you didn't see his face," I muttered to myself as I made an attempt to read one of the new emails in my inbox for the second time. Everyone sounded good when they could present themselves however they wanted. But wasn't that the whole point? To never judge a book by its cover?

"It's just because what?" Elizabeta's voice asked. I looked up to see one of my fellow editors peering into my office. Liz had an amazing ability to detect what could even slightly be inferred as a reference to romance—not that that was the case here, obviously.

I sighed and deleted the email; on the third read-through, I had figured out it was just spam. "Never mind." Liz gave me a suspicious look, but she shrugged and left.

Would someone like Arthur even like it in California? I knew what it must look like outside. By now the fog would have burned off, and the sky would be blue with a few wisps of cloud. There might be a view of the ocean from the street if you got lucky. Brisk summer mornings that melted into warm afternoons, sounded like paradise to me, but would Arthur be disappointed? Would he sit in his apartment, wrapped in a blanket at sunrise and sweltering by sunset wishing for that English rain he must know so well?

I knew what England—or at least London—looked like from movies and TV shows, and it was nothing like San Francisco. We didn't have red telephone booths or double-decker buses; we had cable cars and steep hills and a red bridge. Did he like animals? The zoo? Would he want to go for a walk through Golden Gate Park? I had no idea, and I didn't know if I would even get a chance to find out. It was a long way from England to the West Coast, and for all I knew, he would decide before he even boarded his flight that he would rather stay right where he was.

* * *

 

I was reading over the second draft of a manuscript on my laptop a few hours later when I heard the tinkle of the bell over the door. I liked to keep my office door propped open, but I still couldn't clearly hear what anyone said in the lobby unless they were talking unusually loudly. I kept reading as I heard Gilbert ask, "Really? Are you sure about that?" A moment later, I heard Gilbert's raucous laughter, and then, "Jeez, I don't think I've ever heard an accent like  _that_  before."

"I'm English," I heard a voice say tersely and more loudly than before. I looked towards the lobby office. It couldn't be. Before Gilbert could torment the poor guy anymore, I stood up and headed for the lobby. I would recognize that voice anywhere. My heart was pounding and I felt excitement rise up in me as I realized that I was finally going to meet Arthur.

I had searched on Facebook for an "Arthur Kirkland" after interviewing him, and while I had gotten several hits, their photographs had indicated they were all too young or too old, or else they had lived in the wrong country. After that, I had spent a few weeks trying to piece together a guess of what Arthur would look like: a little like a young Paul McCartney, complete with the haircut, was my personal favorite. But the man in front of Gilbert's desk looked nothing like one of the Beatles. His messy blond hair made him look a little frazzled, and his dark eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. His long coat was unbuttoned, though he was probably still too hot. It had been cold in the morning, but the August heat was quickly warming up the building.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, and the man looked up in surprise. "Arthur, right?" I grinned. He stared at me. I realized he probably had no idea who I was, but before I could introduce myself, his eyes went wide.

"Alfred? I mean," he spluttered, "Mr. Jones."

I laughed. "No, you were right the first time. Remember, I told you to call me Alfred." I strode over to him, hands in my pockets.

"I'm sorry for being late," he said apologetically, but he had relaxed slightly.

"It's no problem. It's great to finally see you." We exchanged smiles at the small joke. I reached out a hand and he shook it firmly. His hand was cool and smooth. It  _was_  great to finally see him; he looked more like what an Arthur should look like than anything my imagination could have come up with. As I gazed into his eyes, I noticed they were very green.

"Wait," said Gilbert as I let go of Arthur's hand a little too slowly, "is this really the new intern you hired?" He laughed. "But he sounds so weird!"

"Now look here," started Arthur, frowning fiercely, but I interrupted him.

"He's from Northern England," I said proudly. I bit my lip to keep from adding,  _Near Newcastle Upon Tyne_. I had a good memory, but even I was aware that would sound a little creepy. I smiled at Arthur. "Don't worry about Gilbert. He's like this with everyone. Come on, I'll show you around."

There wasn't exactly a lot to see in the small building, but I did what I could. Arthur peered into the other editors' offices curiously, and even Roderich gave him a small smile when I told him Arthur was the new intern. "We don't get a lot of new faces around here, so they might be a little too talkative at first," I confided to Arthur as we made our way towards my office. "If anyone asks you to get them a cup of coffee, don't do it—and by anyone, I mean Gilbert."

"I'm relieved to hear it," he said with a slight twitch of his lips that might have been a smile. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to find the nearest coffee shop on my first day."

I grinned. "You have no idea."

A horrified look crossed his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, it's fine! I was a college student doing it for no pay, so buying a little coffee was to be expected. As you can guess, not how you want to spend your time." I laughed. It hadn't helped that at the time, I had been having a small crisis about what I was going to do after graduation. "I remember the first day I got here, I had to reorganize a cabinet of invoices and receipts. After that, I spent hours filling out form rejection letters. There were definitely some Starbucks runs involved." I shook my head. "But seriously, we have a coffee machine in the break room. You're welcome to use it too." I looked at him just before we walked into my office. "I wouldn't put anyone through that."

My office wasn't much, just a room with a bookshelf and a desk that had a lot of paperwork piled on top of it. I'd bought the brass nameplate myself—"Alfred F. Jones," it said—but the National Parks calendar pinned to the wall had been free in the mail, and there wasn't much else in the way of decoration. I didn't even have a window, though all it would have given me was a view of the street. Nonetheless, it was my office, and I was proud of it.

"You'll be working with me," I told Arthur as he looked around. "Sorry, they were supposed to bring in an extra desk for you, but I guess they never got around to it."

"Will we be sharing your desk, then?" Arthur looked almost queasy. I looked at my desk again. There wasn't a whole lot of space. Actually, there wasn't really any space at all. Piles of paper teetered on one side, the middle was taken up by my laptop and my coffee cup, and the other side was covered with the manuscript I was currently working on and its accompanying pile of notes.

"Sorry about the mess," I said, flushing a little. I threw away my empty coffee cup and deposited the pile of miscellaneous papers in a corner; most of them needed to be recycled anyway. "I might not be as prepared as I should be. I kind of completely forgot today's Monday. The week has been passing by so slowly." I gave him a lopsided smile and he seemed to find my joke at least a little funny, because the corner of his mouth lifted upward.

"Coat hook's over there," I said, pointing to it. Arthur gratefully took off his coat and hung it up beside mine. Underneath, Arthur was wearing a suit and tie. I felt a little strange considering that I wasn't wearing a tie and my suit jacket was tossed over the back of my chair. He looked more professional than I did. He clearly noticed this, since he tugged at his tie a little. I hoped he didn't take it off. It made him look handsome and sharp, like he should be the CEO of something. I definitely wouldn't mind it if he got promoted above me, I decided. If he decided to stay here, of course.

I pushed the thought away. It was only his first day, and it was silly to worry about him leaving already. I moved aside another pile of papers and sat on the edge of my desk. "You know, I never asked: how was the flight?"

"It was . . . a little hectic, to be honest. And then I got lost on the way here." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I've never been to the States before."

"Really? Huh."

Arthur gave me a look. "You shouldn't look so surprised. Have you ever been to England?"

"No," I admitted. I bit back a smile as Arthur gave me a smug look and continued with what he was saying.

"And then when your secretary told me that Golden Gateway hadn't hired any interns, I was certain I'd made a horrible mess of things and gotten the date or the name wrong. I don't think you can imagine how relieved I was to hear a familiar voice," he said. I coughed. It would probably be better to leave out the part where I had forgotten to tell Gilbert when Arthur started work. "To be honest, when you told me I got the job, I was worried someone else would be training me." As soon as he said the words, Arthur abruptly closed his mouth and glanced at me.

I held back a grin. He  _wanted_  to work with me? "Nope," I said as I hopped off the desk. "I mean, I could have had someone else train you, but why would I want to?" We exchanged smiles. "Let me just grab the keys to storage so we can get you a chair."

Predictably, Liz was lurking outside my door. "You didn't tell us he was British," she said. "Where's he from? His accent's cute." She winked at me. Clearly, that wasn't the only thing about him she thought was cute.

"Yeah, he seems like a nice guy," I said as if I hadn't heard her. We reached the lobby and I approached Gilbert, who was feeding Gilbird bits of bird seed. If Arthur thought my desk was messy, he must have thought Gilbert's was a disaster area. Liz had once confided in me that the only reason we kept him as secretary was that if we ever fired him, we'd never know how to find anything in the pile of papers and manuscripts that was his desk.

"Is the new guy going to get us coffee?" Gilbert asked me without looking away from the budgie, who was cheeping at him cheerfully. "I want a mocha."

Liz swatted at the back of his head, though he ducked out of the way. "Be nice."

"I need the keys to the storage closet to get Arthur started," I told him.

Gilbert finally looked up at me and grinned. "First-name basis already, are we?" Gilbird hopped off his finger onto his wrist and ran up his arm to his usual spot on Gilbert's shoulder. "I can tell this guy is special already." He sorted through a pile of paperclips and pens before holding up the keys. Liz reached for them, but he yanked them out of her reach. "No way. Only the awesome me gets to access the storage closet." He looked from Elizabeta back to me. "Hey, Alfred, how about I let you have the keys while I get a cup of coffee?"

Liz rolled her eyes, but when he stood up, she sat down in his seat with a sigh. "I'll watch for any customers," she said valiantly, and pulled out her phone.

"Thanks," I said, and I caught the keys when Gilbert tossed them to me. He walked off in the direction of the staff lounge while I headed back to my office to grab Arthur. When I walked into my office, Arthur looked up guiltily from where he had been inspecting the contents of my bookshelf. He flushed a little and hastily moved away.

"Do you see any books you like?" I asked, pausing in the doorway. I let the keys dangle from my fingers.

"Not very many ones I recognized, actually." He paused. "Not too many of the classics."

I hid a smile, amused at how polite he was being. No doubt he was trying to subtly tell me he didn't share my tastes. "What can I say? I like sci-fi."

He didn't seem bothered by it, though. He moved back to the shelf as if drawn to it. "Historical fiction too, I see." He trailed a finger down the spines of a few of the novels. He lingered on my Patrick O'Brian collection and I scratched the back of my head. I had bought them at a used bookstore during my first year of college before I had realized I had no money. Books with lots of technical naval vocabulary weren't normally something I enjoyed—I had never been able to get all the way through  _Moby Dick_ —but those books held a special place in my heart.  _Master and Commander_  had gotten me through a bad breakup, as strange as it sounds.

"Yup, that’s kind of my thing."

He turned back to me and his eyes lit up with interest. "As a reader or an editor?"

"Both. That's what they set me up with when I first started here and it’s been that way ever since."

"Huh." Arthur looked thoughtful, finally seeming to relax. "Was that why you studied history, or a result of it?"

I brightened. He remembered that I'd mentioned that? "I'm not sure. I watched a lot of documentaries with my dad when I was younger, on the Vietnam War and things like that. I ended up reading some historical novels, but I kind of forgot about the history part until I got to college." I laughed at the memory. "I think I had this idea that if I liked something, I wasn't allowed to take it seriously."

He turned back to the bookshelf, but before he did I think I saw a smile. "I know the feeling."

I hesitated. I wasn't exactly protective of my books—it wasn't as if I had very many first editions, or anything like that—but they were kind of personal, you know? I had lent one out to a friend once, and it had come back dog-eared and covered in coffee rings. But I knew right then that I wanted Arthur to know me better, and I wanted him to like what he found. So I stepped up next to him and looked over the volumes with him. "If you ever wanted to," I said as casually as I could, "you could borrow one. Or a couple. Or whatever." I turned to him and grinned. "If you see anything you like."

This close, I could see that Arthur had a few freckles sprinkled over his nose. He blinked at me. Freckles and green eyes. That was it; I was a goner.

"That's very kind of you," he said politely. He smoothed down his hair with one hand, glanced away, and suddenly he was professional again. "Maybe later."

"Right. We should get back to work." I turned back to my desk wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. My ears grew hot.  _Smooth, Alfred,_  I told myself as I tried to remember what we were supposed to be doing. "Oh, yeah. Did I ever get around to telling you what you're going to be doing here?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"Maybe I should do that." I smiled. "For the next week, you'll pretty much just be getting used to how things work. You'll sit in on lower level meetings, do some intermediate emailing, write up summaries for book jackets and advertising, that kind of thing. You'll also help us narrow down the manuscripts we get sent for publication. Actually, I think that's what we'll start with today."

Arthur looked intrigued. "Really? Are you sure you don't want someone . . ." He hesitated. "Higher up in the company to do that?"

"Nah. It's not as high-pressure as it sounds." I smiled at him. "Most of these manuscripts have never been looked over before. We really have no idea if they're even legible or what they're about, especially since the summaries the authors' agents send us are pretty misleading and make everything sound like a bestseller. You'll read a little bit of each manuscript, and if they're clearly a lost cause, put them aside. If they seem salvageable, you'll read them all the way through and write up a summary. Then the editors pick a few of our favorites, we meet up to defend our choices, and we'll make the final decision. Maybe later you can pick a few to defend yourself. Just worry about the first stage for now. You only have to read a few pages of each manuscript, so it doesn't take that long."

"Not the whole book?" I shook my head. He raised his eyebrows slightly. "That hardly seems fair to the author, does it?"

"We don't have  _time_  to be fair to the authors," I pointed out. He frowned. I laughed. When I had interned here myself, I had been as horrified as Arthur was about to be. "Come with me." I tossed the keys up and caught them in one hand, and then headed for the hallway.

I led him down the hall and stopped in front of the storage room. I unlocked the door, pushed it open, and flicked on the light. "This is where we keep the manuscripts."

Shoved up against one wall were spare chairs, lamps, and boxes of old books and files everyone had forgotten about. The rest of the space was taken up by metal shelves that were filled with manuscripts.

It was not a small room.

"Oh," said Arthur as he glanced at the manuscripts.

"Yeah, and this probably doesn't even include the ones we just got in last week. Gilbert's a little lazy about opening the mail sometimes." I grabbed a pile from the top of the nearest stack and hefted it in my arms. "This should be enough to get you started." Arthur picked out a chair and we made our way back to my office. I passed by the lobby and tossed Liz the keys, which she caught after only glancing up from her phone. Of course Gilbert wasn't back yet. I rolled my eyes and followed Arthur back to my office.

When we got back, I set the manuscripts down on Arthur's half of the desk. He maneuvered his chair around and sat down in front of the manuscripts with a wary expression on his face. I pulled my own desk chair over to his and sat down beside him. "This part of the process is pretty straight forward. If you're ever unsure of whether to keep it or not, you can ask one of us to give you a second opinion, or just throw it in the 'keep' pile to be safe."

"What should I be looking for?" He took the first manuscript off the stack and flipped through it curiously.

I leaned forward and shrugged. "Mostly, just a good book. But we are a small company, and we're proud of it. We aren't just looking for bestsellers. While you're reading, you should be asking the author, 'What's your story, and why are  _you_  the one telling it?' If it looks like something anyone could write, we'd rather pass."

He was looking at me as though that was the last thing he had expected me to say. Then his expression softened and he smiled—just a wry twist of his lips, but it was a more genuine smile than he had given me earlier, and one that made his whole face light up. "As I have read my fair share of cheap novels, I think I'll at least be able to recognize those."

I grinned back, my gaze lingering on his eyes for just a moment too long. I couldn't believe I had missed that smile during our interview. I already knew I wanted to see him smile again—and what, I wondered, would his laugh sound like? "Great. Then let's get started."

I worked with him on the first few, just to make sure he got the hang of it. He read fast and kept fiddling with his fingers as he read, as if he were itching to start editing the manuscript right then and there. He looked alarmed when I told him we only read a few pages at the beginning and a few in the middle of each story before deciding its fate, but when he saw how badly written some of the submissions were, he relaxed. It didn't take long until he was reading through the pages with confidence.

After the first three, I pushed the rest of the stack towards him. "They're all yours," I told him. He looked slightly doubtful, but he nodded and picked up the next manuscript.

I rolled myself back over to my half of the desk and woke up my laptop. As it whirred back to life, I watched Arthur out of the corner of my eye. He was frowning at the manuscript in his hands in concentration. His eyebrows, which were normally hidden by his bangs, peeked out from under his hair with the force of his frown. It was . . . okay, it was adorable. I smiled a little to myself and turned my attention back to my laptop.

I had a new message in my inbox. It was from Bella, one of my current authors. I winced remembering how I had emailed her earlier about some "slight changes" I suggested she should make to the ending of her novel; this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation. With the relaxing sound of Arthur turning a page or two in the background, I quickly got preoccupied with work. When I thought to check on him again, almost an hour had gone by.

He had a pencil in one hand, and every now and then he would make a mark on the page, biting his lip as he did so. I could have sworn he had only just pulled a new manuscript off the stack, but he was already ten or so pages into it. Hold on; _ten or so pages?_  I leaned back in my chair. "Hey, Arthur?"

"Yes?" he said absently. He was clearly in the middle of reading a sentence, and it took him a moment to look up.

I smiled. "Whatchya doing?"

He guilty closed the manuscript. "Reading the first few pages."

I chuckled. "By the first few, I really meant just the first two."

He sighed. "I know, but . . ."

I held out a hand. "Can I see?"

He handed over the manuscript reluctantly. I flipped to the first page. There were little pencil marks scribbled here and there. I looked at him. "Have you been . . . correcting their grammar?"

"Old habits die hard," he mumbled. His cheeks looked a little pink.

I grinned. "Right, I forgot. Well, if this one makes it to the final stage, our copyeditors won't complain. What do you think of it?" I looked at the title page:  _One Thing Went Right_ , the bold font proclaimed.

"I . . . like it. It takes place during the Second World War." Arthur coughed a little. "It's a love story, I think."

"Hmm. The title would need to be changed, though," I mused. "Something a little shorter . . ." I looked at him. He was watching me intently, and he was fiddling with the pencil he was holding between his fingers. He seemed . . . nervous? "If you say it's good, I trust you," I told him, and handed it back. He put it in the pile of ones he wanted to keep.

"That's the last one."

"Really?" I asked in surprise. I looked at the clock. It was past noon. The time had really gone by fast. I chewed on my lip. It wasn't exactly time for my lunch break, but it was close enough, and Arthur deserved a break. "What do you say to some lunch?"

He sighed. "That would be lovely."

I stood up and he did the same, but he hesitated by the desk. "Would I be able to take a few of these home?" he asked, nodding at the manuscripts—the pile he had rejected, not the pile he had already accepted. "There are a few I'm unsure about, and I'd like to read them all the way through, if I can."

"You want to do that?" I blurted out. "I mean, we're paying you to do that here. I don't think we'll be able to pay you overtime for doing it at home instead."

He nodded and looked at me earnestly. "I know."

Liz would probably hit me over the head with a copy of our rules and regulations later, but I smiled. "If that's what you want to do, go ahead. I'm sure the authors would appreciate it."

"I know I would," he said quietly. He suddenly looked towards my office door. "Oh, I was wondering, is there—?"

"A bathroom? Yeah, just down the hall." I pointed him in the right direction and he disappeared. I tucked my phone into my pocket and closed my laptop. I started for the door, but then I paused and went back to my desk. I picked up the manuscript Arthur had liked so much and flipped it open to a random page. It was littered with little pencil marks—a comma here, a period there. I ran my thumb over the edge of the manuscript and smiled. He had, of course, crossed out "aluminum" and replaced it with  _aluminium_  in neat, tight cursive. I liked his handwriting; it was a little scratchy, but it had character.

Liz poked her head through the doorway. "So? Are you going to keep him?"

I closed the manuscript and placed it back in its pile. I looked up at her and grinned. "Definitely."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iggycat A/N: Hello! I hope you're liking the story so far. Just as a reminder, the odd chapters will be written by me and will be told from Arthur's perspective. The even chapters will be written by Fakiagirl and will be told from Alfred's perspective. We hope you enjoy!

As strange as it sounds, the first word that came to mind after meeting Alfred was 'dog.' But there was no negative connotation with that word. No, it didn't come to mind because Alfred was dirtied or his hair was tousled, rather what I was thinking of was the ecstatic look on a dog's face when its owner returns from a day's work. The pet always seems to have an expression of sincere elation, and that's what I saw on Alfred's face. He gave the impression that he was genuinely glad to see me, and that was something I'd never experienced with a coworker before.

"So what kinda food do you like?" Alfred asked as I returned from the toilet. He was perched over his laptop, likely finishing an email or saving a file before lunch. When finished he leaned back up to full height and I was again struck by just how tall he was. Six foot one? Six foot two? Whatever the measurement, it seemed to dominate my five foot nine.

"Do you like Indian food? There's a bunch of ethnic restaurants around SF," Alfred piped up, and my eyes bolted open when I realized I'd been staring. This first day was certainly turning out dreadful. I'd already proved incompetent by showing up late this morning, and the last thing I wanted to do was make a mockery of myself by forgetting to speak.

"Of course," was all my mind provided, but it was enough. Alfred grinned as he rolled up his sleeves, getting ready to go out.

"Great, cause I'm a-hungerin' for some butter chicken."

I followed him out, past a distracted Gilbert very conspicuously on his phone. For I moment I wondered why on earth Golden Gateway would keep such a slob as a secretary, but I pushed the thought aside. I couldn't start judging people on the first day. If I did, how on earth would I make it through working here?

Alfred propped the glass door open with his toe and motioned me through. I nodded a thank you as I stepped into the sinful San Francisco sun.

"I know California in general is supposed to be hot, but I thought San Francisco was an exception to the rule," I mumbled mostly to myself, but it was quickly apparent that Alfred had heard me. There was a chuckle directly to my right and I turned to find him laughing.

"You’re right. It’s really just the southern portion that's known for the sun and palm trees," he explained to me as we by passed other well-dressed men and women on their own quests for nourishment. "San Diego, L.A., they're warm, but up here it almost never gets overwhelmingly hot thanks to the Bay. This summer’s been unusually warm for some reason."

I glanced over at Alfred who now had small sweat stains creeping out from his underarms, not that I could blame him. It was, as he said, quite hot, and I too was feeling the heat. I quickly looked away from the perspiration coating his white dress shirt before he once again caught me staring.

"Mhm," Alfred said as he made some rather loud sniffing sounds. "Those gyros smell delicious."

I turned to my left, scanning the shop fronts, expecting to see some type of Mediterranean restaurant, but found nothing but a pharmacy and an electronics store.

"Oh, ha! They're over here, Arthur," Alfred said, pointing just to his right, where on the curb sat a large silver and white lorry, painted with what looked like Greek columns.

"Don't tell me you've never seen a food truck," he said with a look of what can only be described as dismay. "Do they not have them in England?"

I took a moment to process Alfred's question, but I couldn't bring up any images of a lorry handing out meals anywhere in England.

"I don't recall ever seeing one in Manchester," I said at long last and I could swear a look of pain flashed across his face.

"Well, one day we'll have to try one," Alfred commented. "I almost always get lunch at the food trucks, but I thought I'd treat you to something a bit nicer today."

As if Alfred had planned this, he uttered the last word right as we arrived in front of a small restaurant called Tandoor Palace. Gorgeous dark red curtains covered the windows, but before I could get a better look, Alfred ushered me in saying, "Smells good already."

As we stepped in, I had to take a moment to pause and just look at the decor. Various Indian paintings hung on the wall, and everything was bathed in so much color, I felt out of place in my black suit.

Alfred requested someplace quiet and the waiter led us to a small, round table in the corner of the restaurant. I took the seat closer to the back wall and Alfred sat down across from me. We both kindly took a menu from the waiter, but Alfred immediately put his down, already knowing what he would be having.

Five minutes later the two of us had ordered, and I sat awkwardly squeezing a bit of lemon into my water just to have something to do with my hands. Alfred was casually sipping at a soda, but even with such a relaxed atmosphere, my nerves suddenly started to get the best of me and I realized the enormity of the situation. I was eating lunch with my boss. The man who hired me, but who could just as easily fire me. I forced myself to sit up straighter, look presentable.

"Arthur?" Alfred asked me just a second later, his voice laced with concern. That didn't reassure me in the slightest and I still felt incredibly on edge as I glanced up to find him looking worried.

"Arthur, I can tell that you still seem kind of antsy today, and whether it's because it's your first day, or it's me-" Alfred started, but I immediately cut him off.

"It's not you. You've been nothing but kind to me," I told him, which was true. He offered me a small smile but still didn't seem convinced.

"Well, I'm glad it's not me, and I'll just chalk it up to being first day jitters, but I really do wish you would calm down."

I honestly didn't know what to say to that. Instead of responding I simply sat still, but that did not elicit a content reaction from Alfred.

"Really, Arthur, relax," he said as he reached across the table and put a hand on my shoulder in an attempt to calm me. "I like you, okay? So don't go thinking that I'm gonna fire you right off the bat," he smiled, squeezing my shoulder. "Unless of course you use the Xerox to photocopy your ass or something, but I just don't see you doing that."

He laughed and then grinned at me, a sweet and reassuring grin that somehow managed to take a load off my shoulders. I let a small chuckle escape at his joke as well, and slowly the tense wall I'd built up around myself dissipated.

"I think Gilbert would be much more likely to be caught doing something like that."

Alfred smiled and laughed in agreement. All at once I was flooded with memories of our Skype conversation and I pondered how I even managed to get myself so worked up in the first place. There was no reason to feel anything but at ease around Alfred.

* * *

 

The rest of the day went much smoother, and by its end I was on much better terms with Alfred. Even though I was his intern, Alfred never acted like I was below him. True to his word, I was not sent out for coffee even when Gilbert begged and pleaded.

"You're sure you wanna do this?" Alfred asked as I placed a small stack of manuscripts into my briefcase. I'd picked a select few that I thought might hold some promise, but that potential wasn't accurately reflected in their first few pages.

"Quite sure," I told him for what must have been at least the third time. Perhaps what I was doing was unorthodox, but I really did feel I owed it to the aspiring authors to give them a real chance.

I buckled the case's worn leather straps, and took my coat when Alfred handed it to me.

"How do you get home?" he asked as he threw both his sports jacket and leather coat over his arm.

Now that was a good question. I wish I'd been able to answer him directly, but part of the reason I was so ridiculously late this morning was that I couldn't find the train station.

"Well, I should take BART to and from the East Bay, but I think I may have gotten off at the wrong station this morning because I was walking for rather a long time." I didn't add the fact that I wasn't used to San Francisco's hilly streets and was out of breath after only a few blocks.

"Where did you get off?" Alfred ventured cautiously, and I forced myself not to be embarrassed as I replied.

"Um, I believe it was Embarcadero."

"Embarcadero?!" Alfred all but yelled in surprise. "Christ, Arthur that's like 20 blocks away!"

"Yes, well, I realized that after I got off this morning," I countered and then tried to defend myself. "I'd looked up the correct station last night. It was by a library, I remember. But I must've been nervous or distracted this morning, and I was worried I'd overshoot the station, but instead I-"

"You got off way too early," Alfred finished the sentence for me and I just smiled sheepishly at him. "I'll walk you to Civic Center, that's the closest stop. I don't want you to get lost again and be walking around town all night."

And that's exactly what Alfred did, even though halfway through the walk I learned that he drives into town and that the garage, and his car, were in the complete opposite direction of the station. I told him there wasn't really any need to escort me, but he insisted that he make sure I at least get to the closest station. He said I would have done the same if we'd been in Manchester.

After standing for a few minutes, Alfred asking all types of questions on if I knew where I was going or if I knew what line to get on, finally we said goodbye and I headed back to my new flat. Once there, I picked up something frozen from the convenience store about a block away and then made my way back to my tiny room.

I pulled out the first manuscript as my chicken alfredo warmed in the microwave and began to read. I'll be the first to admit the first three to four pages needed work. They didn't grab me like they needed too. They failed to excite, and if I'd been a customer, I wouldn't have been enraptured and bought the book, but would have easily returned it to the shelf. But that's not to say that there wasn't something there. I continued reading, and reading and I was about 40 pages in when I realized I'd left my food in the microwave.

It was easy enough to multitask. I pierced a broccoli crown and shoved it in my mouth as I continued, now very intrigued by the story of a firefighter and his respite after an accident left his leg burned and broken. He'd traveled to London and met a mysterious man there, who claimed to be an author. Fascinated, I read on, only occasionally stopping to correct a grammatical error, or write a small comment in the margin.

By midnight, I'd finished the book, and was very glad I'd decided to give it an extra chance. The story itself was brilliant, a tale of trust, love, and recovery, but it really forced me to think about all the other manuscripts; the ones that perhaps weren't so lucky as to receive a full read through, but still held beautiful tales and messages inside.

"It's such a shame," I said to no one in particular as I returned the manuscript to my briefcase, and emptied my mug of the last few drops of cold tea.

For a brief moment as I lay in bed, just before I fell asleep, I thought of what an intimate thing a manuscript really is. I'd never really considered it before, but with a manuscript you're telling a story, your story, and you're surrendering it to a publishing firm in the hopes that they'll like it and that you'll be able to share your world with others. A manuscript is someone's naked, raw, unedited work and with it they're entrusting someone like me or Alfred to pass judgment on such personal words.

I remember considering whether or not I would be able to send in a manuscript if I ever wrote one, and ultimately decided, that no, I didn't have the courage or trust in others to be able to do that. My words would forever remain private, just like the dreams that I slowly slipped into.

* * *

 

I woke to the sound of some trashy pop song the following morning. Even though I wasn't required to be at the office until 9:30, I had set my alarm to 5 AM just to make absolutely certain that there would be no chance of me turning up late again. This time around I would leave plenty of time in case I got lost... possibly 20 blocks lost.

After showering and eating a quick breakfast of toast and marmalade, I set out and successfully arrived at Golden Gateway by 7:00. I'd managed to get off at the correct station and quickly retraced the steps Alfred and I had taken last night. I was so proud of the fact that I'd made it on time, I wasn't even bothered by the fact that no one else had yet arrived... or the fact that I was locked out in the cool morning breeze until someone with a key did turn up.

I bundled myself up, burrowing my nose into my upturned lapels to keep it warm. Within the hour Gilbert rolled in, only turning to me to say, "Thanks for guarding the place, Rudolph." I supposed the attempt to keep my nose toasty had failed.

I did my best not to pay heed to the secretary as he held the door open, laughing boisterously. Walking briskly past him, I made my way to Alfred's office, which thank God, was unlocked. Whether all the offices in the building were unlocked, or Alfred just liked the 70's ‘no barrier’ attitude, I wasn't sure, but I quickly let myself in and took a seat in the old wooden chair Alfred had brought in for me the day before. I pulled out a new manuscript and made myself look busy in the hopes that Gilbert would not bother me again.

"First you take home manuscripts, and now you're getting here early? You really are the perfect worker."

I turned to find Alfred in the doorway, his laptop case between his legs as he removed his jacket. Underneath he was wearing a stunning navy suit with golden cuffs, a simple white dress shirt, and an alternating stripped tie of burgundy and dark blue. I struggled not to gape as I glanced from him back to myself in my much less impressive outfit which consisted of black slacks and a matching black waistcoat. After I seemingly overdressed yesterday, I'd made a point to wear something simpler today, but clearly that backfired.

"Navy suits you," I blurted out before I really had time to process the thought.

"Wow, and you compliment too!" Alfred said with a laugh as he hung up his coat and placed his laptop bag on his desk. "How is it you were ever unemployed?"

A shy smile escaped as I registered Alfred's flattery. I was grateful for the fact that he did not pursue my comment further, but just took it in stride. Had he questioned me, I honestly don't know what I would have said.

Once Alfred was settled, I returned to the manuscript I was currently working on, but not for long.

"In all seriousness, how's it going? You getting used to the office?" he asked as he dug into his bag and revealed a donut. I took a moment to think that one over, unlike my last comment, and finally settled on something to say as Alfred bit into the pastry and powdered sugar was sent flying.

"Doubleplusgood."

He looked at me with a quirked brow as I handed him a napkin that had been invading my half, or more like third, of the desk.

"Thanks," he mumbled just before wiping his mouth, but he was staring at me with a look of confusion. "Brave New World?" he guessed, as he folded his napkin and removed any stubborn sugar specks from his lips.

" _1984_ , but good guess," I replied. "I'm surprised you haven't read that one."

"Would you recommend it?" he asked in an unwavering voice, and I was surprised at such a swift change in tone. Was Alfred truly that interested in my opinion?

"Well, yes. Especially for someone like you who so dearly loves historical fiction. It is a dystopian novel but there are several allusions to Stalin and whatnot, that I think you might enjoy."

Without a moment's notice the stern eyes were gone, replaced with Alfred's usual carefree appearance.

"Great. I'll have to pick it up then."

I nodded and tried not to think much more of it. Alfred worked for a publishing firm; of course he'd be serious about books.

Once our conversation had died down, I let my eyes wander back to a new manuscript, and slowly became absorbed in the new world. At some point I pulled out the story I'd been reading last night and eagerly told Alfred of its promise. He seemed more interested in me than the story though, only asking questions along the lines of "Why did you like it?" and replying with a shake of his head and, "Of course. That's just like you." I wanted to reply that he really didn't know what was "just like me" seeing as he'd known me less than a week, but I didn't risk it.

When that topic also exhausted itself, I returned to reading and Alfred busily typed away on his computer. I only engaged with him every once in a while when he asked a question, or more likely, told me some sort of awful pun.

"Hey Arthur," he said, sliding me a piece of paper. "Ask me this."

I took the small scrap in my hands and cautiously read out: "Alfred, do you like Kipling?"

"I don't know," he replied with a massive grin. "I've never Kipled."

I shook my head and tossed the paper in the bin, but there was no doubt I was smiling.

"You're terrible."

"I know," he answered, acknowledging the fact that the jokes were bad, but at the same time, letting me know that he had no plans to stop telling them.

"What would you say to some coffee?" Alfred asked just before he lost my attention. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 2:30. We still had quite a ways to go so I figured some caffeine couldn't hurt.

We covered up and left the building, Alfred leading the way to the nearest Starbucks. Once there I ordered a standard cup of coffee and Alfred ordered something with so many Macchiatos and Chinos tacked onto the end of it, I doubted if it even contained any coffee at all. In the end he came away with a concoction that had both steamed milk and whipped cream, chocolate powder decorating the top. He stopped to grab a sugar packet before we sat down, and I must have sent him such an incredulous look that he just laughed and said, "Ha, yeah I know. Sometimes I even like a little coffee in my sugar."

There was one unoccupied plush seat in the corner of the store that Alfred insisted I take, and so he pulled up a wooden chair to sit next to me. We sat, calmly sipping at our respective drinks, chatting all the while.

"So did you have to leave anyone special in England? You know, besides your family," Alfred inquired as he licked some of the sugar-dairy mixture from his lips. He paused to look at me for just a moment before returning to his beverage.

"No, no one in particular," I remarked, because it was true. The closest thing I had to a friend was Francis but he went back to France years ago.

"What? No one?" he asked, unconvinced, but I just nodded in return and repeated myself.

"Not a soul."

"Well, those Englishmen and women are missing out," he said and then in the time it takes to blink, something happened. Alfred's eyes flashed and he nearly choked on his drink as whatever it was took hold of him.

"Arthur, do you have any plans for the weekend?" he asked after clearing his throat.

"Um, none that can't be rescheduled," I replied, because I really didn't want to tell Alfred my Saturday plans revolved around ringing my Mum.

"Great! Then what would you say to letting me show you around the city? We could hit up Fisherman's Wharf and maybe something else."

What did I say to that?

"Sure."


	4. Chapter 4

On Friday at 5:02 pm, I was putting my laptop away when it fully hit me that it was the weekend. It was difficult to believe how fast the time had gone by, but as of a few minutes ago, Arthur had completed his first week at Golden Gateway Publishing. To be honest, I had expected him to give up on his dream of reading the submissions all the way through, but there he was, stacking together a pile of manuscripts to bring home.

"So, what time do you want me to pick you up tomorrow?" I asked as I zipped up my laptop case.

Arthur blinked at me. "Pick me up?"

I pulled on my jacket with a grin. "Yeah. You didn't think we were going to walk to the wharf, did you?"

"O-oh, right," said Arthur, turning a little pink. "How long does it take to get there?"

He had already given me his address when I had insisted on making sure he was using the right Bart stops, and I considered his question. I shrugged. "Not long by car. I was thinking maybe I'd pick you up at 10, we could walk around a bit before the crowds get there, and then have lunch?"

Arthur smiled. "That sounds lovely."

You would think I would have figured out right away that it would be perfectly reasonable (and even polite) for me to show Arthur around town, but it had taken until Tuesday over coffee for the thought to hit me. Arthur was actually here, and that meant that I could actually get to know him better outside of work, not just over the occasional coffee and lunch. Plus, I should probably get him a housewarming present.

I nearly slammed on the breaks just after pulling out of my parking space. I hadn't gotten him a housewarming present.

What did people normally get as housewarming gifts? When I had gotten my first apartment, my mom had sent me flowers, and I had a vague memory of her giving one of our new neighbors flowers at some point, too. (My brother Matt had sent me a clock with a note reminding me to not be late so often, but that was besides the point.) I pulled into the nearest Safeway and wandered into the floral department.

Getting him a bouquet felt a little too romantic, and it wasn't really a housewarming gift if it died right away, I reasoned. I passed over the flowers that sent up a cloud of scent in case he was allergic, and I decided against the roses for the same reason I had decided against a bouquet. Finally, hidden behind a hydrangea in full flower, I saw a potted pink tulip that was just coming into bloom. Arthur seemed like someone who would like tulips. A tacky ribbon was tied around the pot, but otherwise it seemed innocuous enough. I paid for it and headed home.

* * *

 

On Saturday morning, I slept in only a little later than usual before I was awoken by my alarm blaring in my ear. I was running on time and the traffic wouldn't be too bad, so I drove out of Berkeley at a leisurely pace. It wasn't long before I was pulling up to the curb near Arthur's apartment complex and cutting the engine. The tulips on the passenger seat bobbed forward with the sudden stop. I picked up the pot and stepped onto the sidewalk.

The building Arthur lived in wasn't very big, but the apartment numbers weren't very clearly marked. Was Arthur's on the first or the second floor? Had he said?

As I stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the building while a tulip tickled my chin, an elderly woman in a bathrobe and slippers opened the door of the house next door. She squinted at me. "Are you picking up someone for a date, young man?" she called as she shuffled towards the newspaper resting on her front step.

"Not quite, but something like that," I replied with a chuckle. I appreciated that she had said "someone" instead of "a girl." It got a little tiring to always make that correction. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised; this was San Francisco, after all.

"Well, don't lose your courage. You're a very handsome young man," she said, and then shuffled back inside her house.

I smiled a little. I supposed it did look like I was close to chickening out. I approached the apartment building and finally spotted a number on the apartment in front of me: it was Arthur's. I walked up the stairs and knocked. A moment later, Arthur opened the door. "Hello," he said.

It took me a moment to realize why he looked different than usual. His hair was still tousled, and he was clean-shaven as always, but he wasn't wearing a suit. Instead, he was dressed smartly in a cardigan and khakis. The cardigan looked like something my grandfather would wear, but against all logic, the outfit made him look younger.

"Alfred?" he said, and I realized I was staring. When tried to meet his eyes, though, I saw that he was gazing in confusion at the tulips.

I grinned, wondering what the old lady next door would think if she saw me now. "Hey. I brought you a housewarming gift. I was going to get you something earlier, but I thought it would be better if you didn't have to take them home with you on the Bart."

The slight frown immediately disappeared from his face. "Oh, that's very kind of you." When I held out the potted plant, he took it readily. He peered at the dirt through the leaves, and then poked it with a finger to see if it needed watering. "I had to leave all my plants behind when I came here. My flat does feel a little empty without them, I admit."

"Do you like tulips?"

"I can't say there are any flowers I don't care for," he said. He shifted the pot to one arm and held the door open with his free hand. "Come in. Let me just water this and then we can get going."

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Arthur was already on his way to the kitchen, examining the tulip as he went. "Bougainvilleas, maybe," he called over his shoulder.

"What?" I said, busy eyeing his apartment.

"I said, if I had to dislike a flower, it would probably be bougainvilleas. They're such a pain to spell."

You could tell he hadn't lived in his apartment for very long. It was small, and to be honest, it was a little boring. The beige living room walls were decorated by nothing except a clock. A red love seat was pushed against one wall, and a blanket had been draped over the top.

What he had said finally caught up with me. "Spell?"

"Yes. You would think that if you wrote for a home and garden magazine, you would know how to spell 'bougainvillea,' but I had to correct that word more times than I can count."

Through an open doorway, I caught a glimpse of what must have been his bedroom, and through another doorway, the bathroom. I stepped towards his bedroom, intending to just peak through the door, but then Arthur poked his head out of the kitchen and asked, "Would you like some tea?"

I guilty turned to face him. "No thanks. I had some coffee before I left."

"Ah." Arthur disappeared back inside the kitchen. When he didn't immediately reappear, I followed him. The kitchen felt a little more lived in than the rest of the place, though it was small and a bit cramped. The tulips were on the counter. There was kettle – an actual kettle, not an electric one – on the stove. The burner was off, though, and Arthur was washing a teacup which must have been left over from his breakfast. I leaned against the doorway and watched. He finished up and turned to me, drying his hands. His expression was soft and warm. "Thank you again for the flowers. They're a welcome spot of color."

"Well, that isn't all of your gift," I said. Arthur raised his eyebrows. I pulled a thin book out of my jacket's inner pocket. It was a new copy, one I had bought just a few days earlier, but I still felt a little hesitant about handing it over. Arthur put aside the dishtowel and took it from me.

"The Great Gatsby?" he read off the cover.

I put my hands in my pockets and shrugged. "This isn't so much of a housewarming gift as a welcome-to-Golden-Gateway present. It's my favorite book. I read it in high school and I've loved it since. You've probably already read it, I guess."

"Yes, I have, actually," Arthur said as he turned the book over in his hands. "In secondary school as well, I think."

I smiled. "Then you know it's not maybe as deep as it's cracked up to be. It's still a fun read, though. My copy is falling apart because I've reread it so many times. The last sentence is my favorite in all of literature."

"'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,'" Arthur quoted. "I'll have to reread it. That's about all I remember," he admitted. He smiled at me and then disappeared into his bedroom with the book. When he came back out, he was empty handed. "Shall we get going?"

"Yup," I said, and led him to the car.

* * *

 

The fog still clung to the surface of the sea as we drove by the water’s edge. Arthur seemed content to simply watch the scenery, so I navigated through San Francisco mostly in silence. I found a parking spot a few blocks from the ocean and we got out.

I considered leaving my jacket in the car, but it was still pretty cool outside, so I kept it on as we walked towards Pier 39. Arthur put his hands in his pockets but otherwise seemed unbothered by the morning chill. He kept glancing at me, so I kept looking at him out of the corner of my eye, and pretty soon I wasn't really paying attention to where I was going. When I nearly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, I gave up. "What is it?"

"Hmm?" Arthur looked up at me in confusion.

"You keep looking at me."

Arthur smiled slightly and shrugged. "You wear that jacket a lot, don't you?"

"This?" I tugged on the collar of my bomber jacket and stood a little straighter. "Yup. It's an antique."

"Did you inherit it?"

I laughed. "Sort of. My dad bought it at an antique store and let me have it."

Arthur shook his head, but he was smiling. "A Beatles record and an aviation jacket? This is just unfair."

"What can I say? He likes old stuff, and so do I."

"Then why don't you read the classics?" Arthur gave me a sly look out of the corner of his eye.

I winced. "You got me. I guess I should read some of those, huh?"

"You really should," Arthur agreed. A smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I used to go to Fisherman's Wharf a lot when I was a kid, mostly to look at the old ships and buy cotton candy. Even though I lived much closer to it than I used to, I hadn't been there for . . . had it really been a couple of years? It was just as I remembered it, though, right down to the brightly colored tram that rattled past us as we crossed the street from a freshly painted Starbucks to a series of souvenir stands that had seen better days.

"Is the ocean nearby?" Arthur asked after we had walked a few blocks. A breeze was coming up, and it smelled strongly of the sea.

"Yeah, the bay is just over there," I said, pointing to our left. "The view isn't very good until we get to the piers, though, so I thought we could make our way over there."

"Sounds fine to me," Arthur said. We crossed another street and began to walk along a row of shops. The sun was beginning to burn through the fog, and the sidewalk was getting more crowded as we moved closer to the main part of the wharf. We walked past a man reading on a Kindle and Arthur made a distinct scoffing noise.

I waggled my eyebrows at Arthur once we were out of earshot. "Not a fan of technology, I take it?"

"Not a fan of an idiot device that should only be used as a paperweight," Arthur said. He immediately shot a chagrined glance in my direction. "I mean—no, I—well, I guess I haven't owned one, but they've never particularly appealed to me."

"It's okay, I get it," I reassured him, holding back a smile at how embarrassed he was. "I'm not really a fan of them either. I get why they're useful, and they're definitely more convenient, but coming from the publishing industry—"

"They're destroying the business," he finished.

"I mean, I love the smell of a good book as much as the next person, but—"

"That's beside the point," he agreed. "I can't stand how people expect they can just buy any old book for 99 pence. It's insulting to the author and the publisher. If they can afford to pay 99 pounds for the device, they can bloody well afford to buy a few books at full price!" Arthur quickly rolled up the sleeves of his cardigan and huffed. "I really do understand why they're popular. I just wish they weren't."

"My thoughts exactly," I assured him. "I got one for Christmas—" Arthur gave me a horrified look and I couldn't help a chuckle. "I got one, but I never used it. I exchanged it."

"For several actual books, I hope."

"Erm. An iPad."

Arthur threw up his hands. "How could I have expected otherwise," he said, and I laughed.

We wandered along the sidewalk, looking into shop windows as we went and occasionally ducking into one. It wasn't long before the fog had burned away almost entirely. I had taken off my jacket some time ago and draped it over my arm, so I was pretty comfortable in my t-shirt, but it was getting a little warm. As we headed towards the piers, Arthur pushed up the sleeves of his cardigan where they had slipped down. "It must be at least 30 degrees out here," he said, squinting against the glare of the sidewalk.

"It's definitely at least 30 degrees," I said with a chuckle. Arthur shot me a look. I quickly stopped smiling. "Uhhh, it's probably in the high 80s," I said, having no idea how to convert between Celsius and Fahrenheit.

"That's what I just said," Arthur informed me primly.

"Right," I muttered.

Arthur sighed and shaded his eyes with his hand. "I just hope I don't get sunburnt."

"Didn't you put on sunscreen?"

Arthur stopped walking and I nearly ran into him. He looked at me in horror. Then his eyes fell to my nose. "Did you?"

I touched my nose and winced. Well, that was incredibly embarrassing. "Is it red?" I asked, slapping a hand over the back of my neck as if that would keep it from getting burnt, too. We moved under the shade of a nearby shop. Arthur stepped closer to examine my nose.

"It's . . . pink," Arthur assured me, but he didn't sound very convincing. "Your tan doesn't protect you?"

I groaned. "I get burnt and then I tan."

"Ouch," Arthur said sympathetically. "I just get more freckles." He scrunched up his nose and rubbed it as if trying to clean them off. "Silly things."

"But they're cute," I said absently. I looked around and found that we were standing in front of a clothing store – not much help there. "I wonder where we could get sunscreen." When I looked back at Arthur, he had turned bright red, and it wasn't from the sun. I barely repressed a smirk.

With the help of my cellphone and Google maps, we backtracked to a Walgreens. It turned out that Arthur's nose had gotten burnt too, and the backs of both of our necks. I bought a tube of sunscreen which we applied right in the store, and after some contemplation, Arthur bought himself a baseball cap. "I feel ridiculous," he grumbled as we left. Go Giants! the front of the hat proclaimed in orange and black letters. There was a little white smudge on his cheek from the sunscreen.

He couldn't have looked more like a tourist, but I wasn't about to tell him that. I grinned. "You fit right in."

After that, we picked up our pace and soon made it to the piers. I had one last stop I wanted to make before we went to look for lunch. As we stepped onto Pier 45, we found ourselves in front of a retired submarine, the USS Pampanito. After we had both read the information plaque, I led Arthur to my personal favorite. "The SS Jeremiah O'Brien," I said, pointing proudly to the large grey ship in front of us. "It was one of the ships that stormed Normandy on D-Day."

"Oh, really?" Arthur grew very still as he looked at it.

I nodded. "I used to come here all the time when I was a kid. It's one of the few ships that made it out in one piece, and even before I knew what D-Day was, I would make up stories about who was on its crew and what its captain was like. It makes me kind of wonder who wore my aviation jacket, you know? And who was on that ship that day." While I had been talking, Arthur hadn't moved. Had I said something wrong? I shifted my weight to one foot. "They've turned it into a museum. I hadn't been planning on going in, but if you'd like to—"

"No, thank you," Arthur said immediately. "It just . . . wouldn't feel quite right."

I nodded and stood with him while we gazed at the ship, which looked so out of place in the calm bay.

The sun rose higher in the sky, and we headed towards Pier 39. The pier itself was more crowded than the streets had been, especially now that the sun had come out. Someone walked past with a soft pretzel slathered in mustard and my stomach growled. I glanced at Arthur, embarrassed, but he had fallen a few steps behind me and was looking around curiously.

"What's that noise?" he asked.

For a moment, I thought he really had heard my stomach, but after listening for a moment, I noticed what he meant. I smiled as I recognized the sound that was drifting over the pier. "You mean the barking? Come with me."

We walked along the length of the pier and threaded between two buildings to get near the water. A pile of rocks and the remains of a part of the pier jutted out into the water in front of us. The rocks were covered with sea lions, and the animals were making a lot of noise. Occasionally, one of them would waddle across the rocks and slide into the ocean.

"They're sea lions," I said, leaning on the railing. "The big ones with the funny noses are the males."

Arthur laughed in relief. "And here I thought they were just very ugly seals. They make a bit of noise, don't they?" But he was smiling as he leaned over the railing. "Are they always here?"

"Pretty much. I heard that they didn't used to always be here, but they showed up and stuck around after the Loma Prieta earthquake back in '89." We watched the sea lions for awhile. One of them rolled over on its side and stuck out a flipper into the air like it was waving at us. We looked at each other and exchanged smiles. Of course, my stomach chose that moment to growl loudly.

Arthur laughed. "Let's find some lunch," he said, the corners of his eyes still crinkled with the force of his smile. I grinned at him and we walked back to the crowded part of the pier.

"Do you like seafood?" I asked.

"That sounds excellent."

"I can promise it will be." I winked at him. "There's no way you have tasted seafood this good."

"I have lived my entire life on an island," he pointed out dryly. "I think there definitely is 'a way.'"

We reached the pretzel stand, but I bypassed it for what was behind it: Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. I pointed to it proudly. "The best shrimp in the Bay."

Arthur furrowed his brow. "What a strange name for a restaurant."

"Haven't you seen Forrest Gump?" Arthur shook his head, now looking more confused. "That's something you should see," I said, and pushed open the door.

It was packed. We got a great table right next to the window, but we had to fight our way through the crowd to get there. When we sat down, we each picked up our menus and flipped through them. I was starving, and everything looked good to me. I was leaning towards a burger, though. And some onion strings. And garlic bread. And shrimp.

When I looked up, Arthur looked a little overwhelmed. "Do you see anything you like?" I prompted him.

"Do you have any recommendations?"

"Do you like shrimp?"

Arthur gave me a look. "Didn't you ask me that before we came inside? But yes."

I winked at him. "Then I'll handle the ordering."

While I listed off dishes to the waiter, Arthur gazed out the window at the Bay. Once the waiter had left, I pointed at an island a ways to our left. "That's Alcatraz."

Arthur's gaze fastened on it immediately. "Really? I didn't know it was so close by."

"Yup. You can take a ferry out to it."

"Maybe we could do that sometime." Arthur hurriedly added, "I mean, if you're interested."

"That would be fun. I haven't been there since I was a kid."

Arthur nodded absently. "I have to say, I'm thankful this job is so close to the ocean. Even London was a little too far from the sea for my taste."

"I'm very glad you took it," I replied. "I'm not sure I could live away from the ocean. I'd miss it too much. And the food, of course," I said as the waiter arrived with our dishes.

Arthur chuckled. "Of course."

Arthur refused to admit that it was the best shrimp he had ever tasted, but he did give it a, "Not bad." Coming from Arthur, that counted as a win in my book. By the time the shrimp was gone and the onion rings were just flakes of fried dough, we had lingered there for almost an hour and the check had been sitting on the table for a good fifteen minutes. It was Arthur who finally looked at his watch and said something about heading back, but he looked as reluctant to leave as I did.

While we waited for the waiter to bring back our credit cards, Arthur put his chin in his hand and looked out the window. The sky was free of clouds and the sun sparked on the waves. "That really is a nice view," he said.

* * *

 

I dropped Arthur off at his place. He got out of the car, baseball cap in one hand, and then leaned back inside. "Thank you. I had a really good time."

"Me too! We should do this again sometime."

"I suppose it would be nice to have someone show me around Alcatraz," Arthur said with a smile. "It would be pretty embarrassing if I somehow got myself stranded there."

I grinned. "Sounds like a plan. I'll see you on Monday."

He nodded and shut the car door. I watched him walk up the steps to the apartment, fiddle with the key, and let himself in. I thought of the old lady who had mistaken my housewarming tulips for something else. I smiled as I pulled away from the curb and started home. If that was what at date with Arthur could be like, maybe that was something I should consider after all.

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Six weeks without a call? My heart bleeds, mon lapin."

I rolled my eyes as I held the mobile up to my ear and sat down on the couch.

"It's been less than ten seconds. Don't let me regret placing this call, Francis."

There was a short chuckle on the other end, and I took that moment to gaze out the window. It was a quiet Sunday morning, though strange to think that the sun was already setting in France.

"Ah we can't have that, now can we?" Francis said with a smile in his voice. Scratch that, more of a smirk. Alfred spoke with a smile in his voice, a grin in his words, and a beam in his intonation.

"If you're going to be smart with me I won't hesitate in hanging up," I said blandly and I think Francis could tell. There was no usual bite in my remark, my crisp cynicism not up to par with something clouding my thoughts.

"Something is bothering you, Arthur?"

I hesitated. Francis proved that being a prick did not make you a moron. He was quick and cunning and knew something was on my mind before I'd even sorted it out myself.

"Francis, let me ask you something," I started, settling back into the love seat, getting ready for a conversation I wasn't entirely sure I was ready to have. "Do you think a man giving you flowers could ever be more than a friendly gesture?"

* * *

 

"Do settle down, would you?" Alfred stopped spinning around in his chair. A wisp of his hair had fallen out of place and was hanging in front of his eyes. It was, well, it was rather adorable. "You're acting a bit childish, don't you think?"

Alfred fixed me with his usual smile, simultaneously charming and dastardly obnoxious.

"I like to move when I'm working. It gets the blood pumpin', the ideas flowin', you know?"

I raised an eyebrow at my superior.

"Alfred, you read manuscripts, you don't write them."

"Who said the ideas involved work?" Alfred grinned deviously as he finally seemed to still. I'd have asked what exactly he might be plotting but when he picked up a new manuscript and a pen, I chose not to pursue it.

"As long as you're quiet," I replied, returning to my own manuscript. "Maybe if you're good I'll even take you to the park later."

Alfred chuckled, but I didn't look away from the words I'd been sucked back into.

"I don't know if I should be flattered or insulted that you're treating your boss like a kid."

"Maybe my boss needs to abandon his spinny chair and actually do some work."

We looked up at each other and shared a smile. Alfred even showed his teeth which were remarkably white. I briefly wondered if he used those teeth whitening strips that were constantly being advertised here.

"I think you're right."

I blinked and shook my head, returning to my real-life toothpaste model. He was, unsurprisingly, grinning.

"Switch seats with me."

"Excuse me?" I asked perplexed, but Alfred was already up and out and was leaning on the back of my chair.

"This seat taken?" he said with haughty cock of his head.

"In fact it is," I replied, leveling him a glare. I noticed as he put a hand on either side of my shoulders but chose not to mention it. "And let me tell you, you've completely ruined your chances of visiting the park today."

Alfred grinned and I would have smirked back had I not been nearly startled out of my seat at that exact moment. My smile faltered along with my posture as everything started to shake. I gasped, pulling my legs up onto the chair, not knowing what else to do.

"Holy shit! Earthquake!" Alfred cried and I looked at him helplessly.

My heart was beating quickly and my thoughts were muddled. How odd that my brain produced a reaction so akin to a nervous schoolgirl about to ask out the boy she liked when I may have been drawing my last breath.

"What do we do? What if the building collapses?" I looked up at Alfred, likely looking more frightened than I would have liked. "I didn't move here just to die!"

I tried to focus on Alfred's eyes. If nothing else, they were calming and I'd be damned if I was going to die the frantic mess of panicked thoughts that I currently was. I trained my own eyes on his, but as I did, the world around me slowly stopped shaking and I noticed that Alfred's eyes glowed with something much different than fear. They were... almost mirthful?

I looked away, daring to see the damage the quake had done to the rest of the room, but everything seemed to be in place. Every book on Alfred's bookshelf was arranged just as it was before, every manuscript lay neatly on our shared desk. Alfred's half full coffee cup hadn't toppled over, nor had the Styrofoam cup of tea that he'd brought me this morning. But how could that be?

I glanced back at Alfred, and the moment our eyes met he... started laughing?

"'Oh Alfred, I don't want to die!'" he mocked me as he doubled over, placing his hands on his knees, laughing himself silly. "Man, I got you good!"

"Excuse me?" I took a tentative step from the chair, still slightly worried the ground might open up and start shaking again, but as it didn't, I took another step and found myself in front of my boss. He leant back up again, grinning at me as he wiped an invisible tear from his eye.

"That was great. I really need to try that on my brother when he visits," he said with a smirk, and before I'd fully thought it through, I was tugging on Alfred's tie, angrily pulling him forward.

"Woah there," Alfred breathed out as I fixed him with my most menacing look. His cheeks turned a bubbly pink but I didn't release him. "Calm down, Arthur, it was just a joke." He pointed behind me. "I was just shaking your chair. It's okay, you're okay."

I loosened my hold on his tie but didn't let go.

"Are you insane?"

I barely noticed my breathing had been somewhat erratic until Alfred put a hand on my shoulder and stilled me. I could hear my unusually fast heartbeat, my non-rhythmic breaths. I could hear Alfred's soft voice trying to calm me.

"It's alright. Take a deep breath."

I did so and my heartbeat started to fall in line with my inhales and exhales.

"Look at me."

I followed that order as well and when I looked up I found a genuinely contrite looking Alfred.

"Arthur, I am  _so_  sorry. I didn't think I would spook you that bad." He squeezed a hand that I'd forgotten was on my shoulder. I noticed that this time there was something like fear visible in Alfred's eyes. But what did he have to be scared about?

"I don't mean to interrupt you two lovebirds, but this just arrived for you, Al, and it looks pretty important," Gilbert smirked from the hallway, and his taunts were like oil on the cogged gears of my mind. Everything started turning all at once and I immediately let go of Alfred's tie.

"Mr. Jones, I'm terribly sorry, that was out of line." I awkwardly rubbed my hands on my trousers as Alfred lent back up to his full height, an embarrassed smile of his own on his face. "Please forgive me."

"Arthur," he paused for a minute fiddling with his tie, but only making it look worse. "You haven't called me that since you first started here."

"What a soap opera this is turning out to be," Gilbert reasserted his presence as he stepped into the room and pressed a package into Alfred's arms. He lifted a hand and crossed his pointer over his middle finger. "Boy do I hope Al eventually tells you he's carrying your baby."

"Gilbert!" Alfred's face flushed with color as he smacked the secretary with the jiffy bag in his hands. "Get out."

The white haired man slipped out with a trail of chuckles as Alfred turned back to me.

"Hey, uh..." Alfred lifted a hand behind his head and maybe if my mind wasn't flustered and still coming off an adrenaline high, I would have thought it funny that someone who worked so high up at a publishing company was at a loss for words. As it was, I hung my head and shuffled my way back over to my side of the desk.

"We should get back to work. Those manuscripts aren't going to read themselves," I rushed, not waiting for Alfred's response as I buried my nose back into the manuscript I'd been handling before this entire fiasco began. That was something I'd always loved about literature, the ability to be sucked into another world at a moment's notice. Books always held a beautiful escape from reality because if I was in Wonderland or Westeros I wasn't thinking of how terrible I felt for snapping at Alfred like that or how Gilbert's casual teasing made me feel much more uncomfortable than I let on.

"Right," Alfred agreed a moment later, as I was already half a page into my manuscript, but as I looked up, I found him eagerly typing away at his laptop rather than opening the package Gilbert had so graciously delivered.

"Shouldn't you attend to that first," I stumbled, curiously, pointing to the package. "It looks time sensitive."

"Oh it is," Alfred said, offering me a small smile that was nowhere near on par with his usual grins. "But I gotta do something first." He winked at me and I nearly looked away. "Some stuff is more important than books, you know?"

I didn't really know, but as an underling I just nodded at my boss and re-immersed myself into a story of a high-clearance FBI agent who falls in love with a man who can read minds. How dreadful the world would be if we could all read minds, I thought to myself, as the time ticked away in the small office and I waited for when I could return to the safe haven of my apartment. When at last the clock struck five, I wished Alfred a good evening, the tension still palpable and awkward between us, and started back on the train. When I arrived at home, only to come across a pot of beautiful white daisies and small note of apology sat in front of my door, I again thought of how dreadful the world would be if we could all read minds; it would ruin the element of surprise.

* * *

 

"Good morning, Arthur," Alfred greeted, handing me the usual cup of Starbucks Earl Grey. It had been a week since our little stumble, but the air had cleared between us. I'd thanked Alfred for the flowers and the apology and told him it wasn't necessary but he'd just waved me off and repeated that some things were more important than books.

"You really needn't bring me tea every morning," I replied, accepting it and reaching for a paper bill in my pocket.

"And you really needn't fish out your wallet every time I do, considering it's always my treat." He set his coffee cup down on his desk and waved away the bill I tried to stuff into his palm. "Put that away, I'm not a stripper," he replied with a grin and a bark of a laugh.

I returned his smile as I replaced the bill into my pocket and relaxed back into my seat. It was odd to think that Alfred's laugh made me so happy, but after going two or three days with only apologetic smiles and tense, fake chuckles, there was no other way to describe the return of my superior's usual, bright personality.

"Well, you've got the legs for it," I replied with a small smile and Alfred bubbled with laughter.

"You think so?" He walked around the desk and struck a pose for me. "Maybe I've missed my calling!"

"The only thing you've missed is your mind," I retorted with a roll of my eyes as Alfred chuckled and returned to his side of the desk.

I removed the plastic lid from the tea Alfred had brought me, wisps of steam rolling off it as I did so. The liquid was simultaneously deliciously warm and remarkably cool and calming as I brought it to my lips. Starbucks by no means made the best tea, but every cup Alfred brought me tasted curiously good. I had my suspicions that he added something to make it just so – a drop of honey or a dab of cream – but I dared not ask.

"So, Arthur," I glanced up to find Alfred pouring his third or fourth sugar packet into his cup and would have sighed, had Alfred not been staring at me so intensely.

"Yes?" I fidgeted, suddenly conscious of my unruly hair and poor posture. I could do nothing about the state of affairs atop my head, but I did sit up straighter.

Alfred was staring at me, and though it was with a soft smile on his face, I still found it incredibly intimidating to be stared down by your boss.

"Were you still interested in seeing Alcatraz?"

Oh, was that all? My shoulders slumped slightly, and I relaxed back into my chair.

"Yes, but I haven't had a chance quite yet."

"Well then, isn't today your lucky day," he grinned, sliding two pieces of paper out of his briefcase and across the desk toward me. I blinked at the scraps before realizing they were tickets to visit the island.

"A week from this Saturday. I can pick you up again if you'd like."

"That sounds wonderful." And I realized as those words slipped from my lips that I wasn't sure whether I was talking about finally visiting Alcatraz or spending another day out on the town with Alfred.

* * *

 

"Hey there," Alfred greeted with his trademark smile as I opened the door for him. He was dressed down: jeans, a Stanford t-shirt, and his antique jacket again. "We match," he grinned as he pointed to my University of Manchester hoodie.

"What a coincidence," I replied, stuffing my keys and wallet into my pocket and ushering Alfred out. He was discretely surveying my living room again just as he had last time and it made me nervous. Did he find it too bland? Was I not stylish enough for a young San Franciscan such as Alfred? As I locked the door and Alfred padded down the stairs, I wondered why those thoughts had even come up in the first place. It wasn't my job to please Alfred. It certainly wasn't as if I were trying to impress him.

"Perhaps I should pick up a Cal shirt and we could truly match," I smirked, offering Alfred a coy little smile. I had picked up on a few things in the brief month I'd been in the Bay Area, and one of those things was the very palpable tension between the two major universities here.

Alfred let out an almost dark chuckle as he put the key in the ignition and started the car.

"Don't even get me started on  _the Golden Bears_ ," he replied, the last half of his sentence squawked in a ridiculous attempt at the voice of a scornful elderly women. I had to smile.

"Tough words from someone whose school mascot was a tree."

"Aye," Alfred chirped in a warning voice, turning to smile at me as we stopped for a red light. "I won't have anyone insulting our sacred yet unofficial, leafy mascot."

"Do forgive me, Mr. Jones," I sighed, putting my hands up in mock surrender.

"I'll let you off with a warning this time, Mr. Kirkland," he replied, though he didn't take his eyes off the road to look at me. I almost felt dismayed at that for some reason. "But next time I promise you won't be so lucky."

We kept on driving, silent except for the David Bowie song playing on the radio. As I rested my cheek against the cool glass of the passenger window, Alfred spoke up again, telling me about some of the differences between the two universities. I'd had no idea, for example, that Stanford was a majority graduate school whilst Berkeley was mostly comprised of undergraduates. Nor was I aware that they were on different sides of the bay, but I suppose the geography of the local universities had never truly been on the top of my 'to-know' list.

"But you wanna know one of the things Stanford and Cal students have in common?" Alfred asked, as he pulled into a garage just a block or so from the pier. I glanced at him as he parked the car and turned to grin at me.

"We all got into Berkeley."

He winked and I couldn't help but think how charming he was even when telling terribly offensive jokes, or defending a tree that did nothing more than run around at American football matches. I smiled at him, and he returned it tenfold, always outdoing me, and neither of us seemed to make any motion to leave the car, but it was a comfortable and close silence. It gave me a moment to notice just how truly handsome Alfred was. His hair looked incredibly soft and his eyes so startlingly blue. He was the poster boy for shampoo, for eyeglasses, for anything that could possibly be marketed. Honestly, with that smile, and those eyes, Alfred could sell me a laxative and I wouldn't question it. Yet it did make me wonder, with so many features better suited to Hollywood than the publishing industry, how on earth was it that Alfred wasn't married? Not that I'd ever asked, of course, but Alfred never wore a ring and I doubted that he was the sort to only wear one when it suited him. Yet even with marriage aside, could Alfred be single? I'd never inquired into that either, for it wasn't my business, but at this moment it struck me just how incredibly odd the circumstances were. With looks like that, with lips that looked so supple and soft and skin that was smoother than a marble statue, Alfred must have a girlfriend. There was no evidence pointing to the contrary. He must have had every young lady at Stanford, undergrads and graduate students alike, lined up for dates. There's no way he-

"Hey, Arthur?"

Alfred's query broke me from my thoughts, and I silently thanked him, not sure where that train of thought was headed. I focused my eyes and realized he was staring at me, his cheeks having taken on a slight red tinge, like a ripening fruit. Suddenly the confines of the car felt much too close, and I wanted to escape.

"Yes?"

"Arthur, I," Alfred was staring at me with such concentration, I genuinely thought he might burn a hole right through me. I nodded, encouraging him to continue, but the moment I did, he straightened up and nearly hit his head on the roof of the car. "I, uh, I brought the sunscreen from last time to make sure you don't burn again!" And with that he fumbled for a backpack he kept in the backseat and pulled out the tube of sunscreen he'd purchased at a chemist's last time we'd visited the pier. He pressed it into my hands before immediately tumbling out of the car.

How queer of Alfred to act so clumsy. His usual juvenile tendencies were rather endearing but this all-thumbs behavior was just odd. Yet, as usual, I chose not to comment on it.

"Thank you," I replied as I stepped out of the car, finding Alfred raking a hand through his hair. When he turned to look at me the blush had quelled and if the brilliant grin he sent me said anything, he seemed to be back to normal. I suppose the moment of fresh air had cleared his mind.

"Sure," he smiled, locking the car. "We can't have the sun giving you any extra freckles, now can we?"

To be honest, I was surprised Alfred had remembered such a minor detail that I'd mentioned in passing. I rolled my eyes. That he remembered, but in the office when I asked what he'd done with a certain manuscript, then Alfred was no help at all.

"No, I suppose not."

Things rapidly returned to normal following that minor escapade. Alfred was all smiles and tales of the last time he visited the island as a child as we showed our tickets and boarded the boat.

"Come this way," Alfred urged, as he bypassed other tourists staring out the windows on the lower deck. He led us through a door and outside, just as I could hear the door closing and a recording was played instructing passengers what to do in case of an emergency. The wind was fierce out on the bay, and as I stood on the deck with Alfred, it ruffled my hoodie and did quite the number on my hair as well. But it was entirely worth it because the view was amazing, especially once we started moving.

"The Golden Gate's just over there," Alfred said, to my left, and I followed where his finger pointed to find the elegant red giant towering above the water. "And the Bay Bridge is that way," he said, directing me to look in the opposite direction. "But that's a bit less exciting."

I didn't have the heart to tell Alfred to hush and just enjoy the moment so I let him point out this and that, and rattle out a fact or two on each thing, but all the time my mind was stuck on the beauty of the water and the light rocking of the waves beneath us. There really was no comparable feeling to being out on the water and I couldn't remember the last time I'd been on the open sea, or the open bay as it was.

"We're here!" Alfred said all at once, and I had hardly noticed that the other tourists had left the deck, headed back inside to queue up by the door. Alfred nodded me forward. "Go ahead." I led the way and after a few minutes of people filing through the door we were back on land again. It wasn't hard to find the prison, as it was the only building sat atop the island, with windows rusted and paint cracked and in places worn away. I must have looked like a right tourist just standing there staring, but it was quite the sight to take in. For every word an author could use in their best attempt to describe a time period long since passed, it never did quite have the same effect as standing right next to the real thing. For a brief moment it was 1947 and I was the newest inmate to be greeted by the gulls and the offending monstrosity that lay in front of me. For a moment I felt like I was in another time period.

"Come on, let's go inside," Alfred said from somewhere behind me, and the illusion vanished as quickly as it had come. Was there a word to capture a feeling of nostalgia for an era in which you didn't belong or for a place where you never lived? I thought about asking Alfred but I didn't as he pressed a hand to my back, gently pushing me forward. Some feelings just can't be captured and could never adequately be expressed in words.

We made our way into the prison and up a set of stairs where we waited in another short queue for our audio tour headsets. When it came our turn, I almost expected Alfred to pull something funny, like request a recording for me in German or French, neither of which I spoke, but he surprisingly asked for two English headsets, handing one to me which I quickly hung around my neck.

The rest of the tour truly flew by as I immersed myself in the voices of the narrators and the stories they told. It was fascinating to hear the perspective of a guard, immediately followed by the point of view of a prisoner. The same building was a place of business, though granted an incredibly dangerous business, for one, but absolute hell for another. I was so caught up in the audio tour that I nearly forgot Alfred was there, only pausing my recording and removing my headset twice when he tapped me on the back. The first time he wanted me take a picture of him making a ridiculous face in the solitary confinement chamber, to which I obliged, though not without a soft sigh. The second time, though, was right after we walked through the prison library.

"Could you imagine?" he started before I'd fully pulled off the headset. "Having books become a privilege rather than a right? That's insane."

The tour had mentioned that only prisoners that behaved and obeyed the rules were permitted to check out books from the library but I suppose I hadn't given the fact a second thought as Alfred so obviously had.

"I can't say I'm surprised. This was the most high security prison in the nation," I replied, following Alfred's lead as he settled on a bench for a quick rest. "But I can't imagine it, no." I shook my head. "If you take away my literature, you might as well take away my food and water as well."

Alfred exhaled a laugh, but it was softer than usual, perhaps because he was being courteous to the people around us. "Good thing you would've never ended up here, then."

"Oh? You don't think stealing that packet of Maltesers back when I was a tot would have earned me a stay here?"

Alfred grinned at me and I returned a smirk.

"I gotta admit, I have no idea what Maltesers are," he said with that same quiet chuckle, and my smirk softened into a smile.

All through the rest of the tour I listened closely to what was said by the police officers and prisoners alike, but in the back of my mind I kept thinking that the next time my brothers sent me a package from home, I'd have to ask for an extra pack of Maltesers.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Hi, everyone! Zeplerfer here. About a month ago, Iggycat contacted me about helping to finish this story. Since Fakiagirl has moved on from the hetalia fandom, I agreed to take over the Alfred (even) chapters. I've enjoyed this fic from the very beginning and with the help of Iggycat and Fakiagirl's notes, I'm doing my best to continue the story you already know and love. I'm not sure how quickly you'll get your updates, but I promise you, this fic will have an ending!_

Up until six weeks ago, I would have told you that Mondays were the worst day of the week, no questions asked. But ever since I started sharing my office with Arthur, I found myself eager to drive to work and take my place across from him at our messy desk. Well— _half_ messy desk. My side was cluttered with pens and papers. Arthur kept his side immaculate.

“Have a nice weekend?” I asked him as I settled into my comfy roller chair. I reached over to boot up my laptop, but kept my eyes focused on Arthur. It was hard to pay attention to anything else in the room when he had that coy smile on his face, the one that gave him adorable dimples.

I’d started categorizing his smiles. Yeah, I had it bad.

“Nothing too exciting,” Arthur replied, ducking his head beneath the desk as he pulled something out of his black messenger bag. “But I do have a little surprise for you.”

He slid a red bag of candy across the desk and I caught it easily before it fell off the edge of the table.

“Sweet!” I cried, examining the package with excitement. Above a picture of chocolate-covered balls, was the label ‘Maltesers.’ It sounded vaguely familiar, but it took me a moment to remember where I had heard the word before. I gave Arthur a teasing grin as soon as I made the connection. “Should I tell the folks at Alcatraz that you’ve been stealing again?”

He snorted, but looked pleased that I had remembered. “These aren’t stolen. They were in a care package from my brothers.”

“Wow. They send you candy?” I asked. I was kinda surprised because I remembered Arthur calling his brothers ‘twats’ during our first Skype conversation. Maybe ‘twat’ had a different meaning in Manchester.

Arthur grinned at my look of surprise. “They thought I’d be a bit homesick. And they said that the sweets over here are rubbish.”

“Hey, America has awesome candy!” I protested.

He chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t take it personally. My brothers insult everything and everyone. I think it’s how they show they care.”

Somewhat mollified, I tore open the bag and popped one of the malted milk balls into my mouth. It was softer than I expected, and the chocolate coating felt silky as it melted on my tongue. I wasn’t going to admit that I liked them better than Whoppers, but I sorta did.

I gave Arthur a chocolatey grin. “You know, the first time you said you’d stolen ‘Maltesers,’ I thought they were cigarettes or something,” I admitted.

Arthur looked a little embarrassed. “No, that wasn’t until later.”

“You smoke?” I blinked in surprise.

“I did. Still do on occasion, when life is too stressful.”

That wasn’t something I had expected from the introverted bibliophile, but growing up in Berkeley, I was used to folks who smoked to relieve stress. It just usually wasn’t cigarettes. I tried a few more Maltesers and they tasted just as good as the first one.

Arthur leaned forward eagerly as he watched me eat. “Do you like them?” he asked.

“Yeah, they’re pretty good.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Just ‘pretty good’? And yet you’ve already devoured a dozen malted milk balls in less than a minute.”

“Guess I just love balls,” I teased back.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized that I was probably taking our workplace flirting too far. But Arthur didn’t look upset with me, so I stuffed the candy bag into my overflowing desk drawer and pretended that everything was normal. Everyone dealt with workplace crushes, right? I wasn’t being a creepy boss; we were just being friendly.

Arthur quietly returned to his latest pile of manuscripts as I distractedly scanned my emails. Thoughts and rationalizations flew through my head at a furious speed. Lots of people hung out with their interns on weekends, I told myself. And gave them flowers… and brought each other candy… and teased each other about liking balls…

My mouth went dry as the realization hit me. I knew I had it bad for Arthur, but I hadn’t realized how far I had let my crush bleed into our working relationship. This was supposed to be an internship, not a dating service!

There was an urgent email from one of my writers, but it was too hard to focus on the words when I was thinking about the man sitting across from me. I took a deep breath and read the email again. Everything would be fine so long as I focused on my job instead of admiring the way Arthur’s eyes sparkled when he read a beautifully written passage.

The email informed me that Bella, one of our most successful authors, had accidentally deleted her backup and latest draft, and she wanted me to come down and fix the problem. I groaned in frustration. There were downsides to being the most tech-savvy person in a den of writers and editors.

“Everything okay?” Arthur asked me, a tone of concern in his voice.

“Dunno. One of our authors deleted her draft and she wants me to see if I can restore it.”

Arthur tilted his head to the side. “Why doesn’t she bring it up here to the IT department?”

“I _am_ the IT department,” I replied with a laugh. “I fix what I can, and if I can’t fix it, she’ll have to take her computer to the shop. For now, I’ll go to her. It’s four hours round-trip and she doesn’t like dealing with SF traffic.” I couldn’t blame her. California drivers were generally pretty nice, but I understood wanting to avoid the crowded streets (and expensive parking) of San Francisco. “Looks like I’m taking a road trip down to Monterey this afternoon.”

“Mind if I join you?” Arthur asked. “I’d be interested in seeing how you work directly with the authors.”

Despite my concerns about our workplace relationship, I couldn’t say no to such a reasonable request. Plus, spending the time chatting with Arthur would save me from the monotony of driving down by myself. I grinned and nodded. “Sure! You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

* * *

My reason for asking Arthur about cat allergies was obvious as soon as we stepped into Bella’s cottage that afternoon. Several cats stared at us from the bookshelves, while others lounged on the cushions in the front bay window. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Arthur trying to hide a smile as he watched a kitten playfully knock a pencil off a nearby table. The felines kept a watchful eye on us as we followed Bella to her writer’s alcove, but they lost interest once they realized that we didn’t have any food.

As we neared the laptop, Bella explained her problem. “I was trying to transfer the story to my backup this morning, but I accidentally moved the old copy to the hard drive and it replaced my newest version.” A slight look of dread took over her face. “I’d been on a roll too. I was already halfway through Victor’s chapter!”

I sat down in front of her computer. “Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “Most files stay somewhere on a hard drive unless you overwrite them with something new or wipe the drive.”

She stared at me blankly. “What, like with a cloth?”

I shook my head and resisted the urge to chuckle. Back at Stanford we had referred to this as the techie/fuzzy divide. Fortunately for me, I had found time for both my history major and a few of the introductory computer science classes.

“I’m going to start off with a… cat.” I turned back to look at the screen and was surprised to find that a cat had sprawled across the laptop in the short amount of time I had been talking with Bella. “Mind moving the furry keyboard?”

“Oh, of course!” Bella said, slightly flustered as she gently lifted the orange tabby off the keyboard. “Come on, Tabitha, you can’t sleep there right now.”

I plugged in a USB port and quickly installed the data recovery software. I had helped set up Bella’s backup drive, so I had no trouble finding the location on her computer. With a few clicks, I started the program and picked the directory I was trying to recover. As I waited for the code to work its magic, I turned my head to the side and listened to Bella and Arthur’s polite chatter.

“What a quaint name,” Arthur said thoughtfully, eyeing the cat. “Did you by chance name her after Tabitha Twitchit?” he asked. His fingers moved at his side, like he wanted to reach out and pet the cat, but was afraid it wasn’t professional behavior.

“You recognize the name!” Bella cried excitedly, eyes sparkling with delight.

“Of course,” Arthur smiled, perhaps musing about the anthropomorphic cat from the tales of his childhood. “I think my Mum read me all the books as a young boy.”

“I loved them too,” Bella agreed. “Want to meet Moppet, Mittens, and Tom Kitten?”

“Kittens?” Arthur asked excitedly. I smiled to myself, pleased that Arthur had thrown professional caution to the wind in favor of adorable fluffballs.

Their voices grew softer as they went looking for three kittens that apparently didn’t want to be found. As much as I wanted to watch Arthur try to out cat lady an actual cat lady, I returned to my software recovery program. The files were playing hard to get. I was going to need to use a stronger algorithm, which meant more processing time.

As I waited, I logged into my email and responded to a few less urgent requests. This time the recovery was successful and I sighed in relief as the files popped up on the screen. I still had Bella’s initial draft from a month earlier, but redoing several weeks’ worth of edits would have been sheer misery.

I restored the files and copied them over to my USB drive just in case Bella had another problem with her laptop in the near future. She claimed that the machine hated her. Personally, I thought it was just annoyed about being treated like a cat bed.

“And this is Matilda!” Bella cried from the living room as she and Arthur finished the last of her cat tour. I turned around to see her lift up a cat so large and fluffy that if attached to the end of a stick, it would make an excellent mop.

“Roald Dahl,” Arthur guessed correctly, earning another pleased smile from Bella.

As amusing as it would be to spend the next hour listening to them talk about cats and children’s books and children’s books featuring cats, I had a few other plans for Monterey floating around in my head. I cleared my throat and gave Bella a thumbs-up when I caught her attention.

“Got your files back,” I told her.

“Wonderful!” She rushed over with the cat still in her arms. “Now if I could just figure out how to kill Victor,” she said, still beaming at me.

I laughed and relinquished the desk chair. “Better leave you to it,” I replied. It wasn’t smart to get between an author and her novel, especially when she had murder on the mind. By the time Arthur and I reached the door, she was already bent over her keyboard, typing intently as a cat’s tail swished back and forth over the mouse.

We walked to where my car was parked on the other side of the street. After a quick glance at my watch, I proposed spending the rest of the afternoon in Monterey. “The aquarium is hella awesome and we’re not gonna get back before five anyway,” I pointed out logically as Arthur wrinkled his nose at my choice of adjective. Plus, I had the _perfect_ place in mind to show Arthur how delicious American sweets could taste, but I was gonna surprise him with that part of my plan later.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Arthur asked, looking a little dubious as I already started driving the short distance to downtown Monterey, known also as Cannery Row.

I beamed, eager to show him the world’s best aquarium. “Of course! You’re still editing that zookeeper romance novel, right? You can do some research for that.”

“Well, I do have a few questions about the aquarium’s back rooms…” Arthur admitted, still doing his best to maintain a professional façade. I wished he would loosen up more, but I could see why he didn’t want to appear _too_ eager to goof off in front of his boss.

Since Arthur insisted, we started our aquatic adventure with the African blackfooted penguins. A few waddled around on the rocks in their enclosure, while others swam up against the edge of the glass, watching the visitors with evident delight. We had just missed the penguin feeding for the day, but that meant that the penguin zookeeper was still standing around and eager to answer all of Arthur’s questions. He asked her about what the penguins did after hours and after a joke about the penguins hitting up the club that had Arthur looking looking mildly uncomfortably as I nearly doubled over with laughter, she told him some more serious stories about leading penguin parades to visit the veterinarian and letting fluffy gray penguin chicks chase some of the employees around the warehouse. The penguins didn’t like being picked up or put in cages, but they were happy to follow humans around. Especially if those humans had given them fish before.

“Can you blame them? Who _doesn’t_ love fish?” she asked rhetorically, grinning and tossing her long, brown ponytails behind her shoulders.

“True enough, though I prefer mine cooked,” Arthur replied.

She laughed. “I should get back to cleaning up the fish buckets, but it was great talking to you!”

“Likewise,” he replied with a gentlemanly nod.

I wanted to tease him about starting up his own penguin romance, but I thought the better of it as we wandered to an outdoor section of the aquarium that featured a balcony overlooking the ocean as well as an open-air animal display just below us. He hadn’t shown any actual interest in her and I _had_ promised myself that I would cut back on the whole workplace flirting thing.

The view of Monterey Bay was gorgeous as always. The water was a bright teal in the tidal pool, shifting to a true blue out near the craggy coastal rocks. I took in a deep breath of the salty ocean air and listened to the sound of waves crashing against the rock outcroppings.

“It’s beautiful,” Arthur murmured.

“Yeah,” I agreed. We stood outside for several minutes, simply basking in the bay’s relaxing beauty. I watched fluffy white clouds roll across the horizon and enjoyed the sea breeze as I leaned against the railing.

“Oh, look!” Arthur cried excitedly. He pointed to two sea otters floating amidst the kelp forest spread out below us. They lay with their bellies facing the sky, paws curled inward as they drifted on the water. “It looks like they’re holding hands,” Arthur said in surprise.

“They do that so they don’t lose each other while sleeping,” I explained. “You otter know that!”

He rolled his eyes at my pun and we walked back inside. Seeing how fond Arthur was of the outside otters, I guided him to the more elaborate indoor sea otter enclosure near the main entrance. These otters were much livelier than the ones outside. They swam up and down and back and around in continuous loops, playing with floating toys and balls as the other aquarium visitors laughed in delight and tried to snap pictures of the speedy mammals.

We found a spot close to the glass and watched as three otters played a game of tag and another rolled around on the rocks near the back of the exhibit. I loved seeing otters play. They all seemed so cheerful and energetic. Like water puppies!

“You know why they don’t give the otters caffeine?” I asked Arthur, leaning in so that I didn’t bother the other folks with my terrible jokes.

He shook his head and gave me a perplexed look. “Is that a thing?”

“Of course not. Could you imagine these little buggers even more hyped up? It would lead to… otter devastation.”

This time Arthur swatted me lightly on the upper arm as _pun_ ishment. We continued exploring the rest of the aquarium and I made sure to point out the Ocean Sunfish in the next tank. It was 300 pounds of big and ugly.

“It looks like it was created by a mad scientist,” Arthur remarked. He watched the fish swim in circles in the gigantic, two-story tank.

I nodded my head in agreement. “Seriously. They used to have an even bigger one, but he died a few years back.”

“This really is a remarkable place,” Arthur said as we moved over to the kelp forest exist. The green vines gently moved back and forth in the water.

“I told you Monterey was the best. There’s no otter aquarium like it!”

Arthur groaned. “ _Please_ , I can’t take an otter pun!”

I broke down laughing, drawing a few stares from some of the other people standing nearby. When I was finally finished, I wiped my eyes and sighed happily.

By the time we had finished with the rest of the exhibits, it was nearing closing time and I was getting hungry. Fortunately for me, the best chocolate and ice cream in Monterey was only a few blocks away. I piqued Arthur’s interest with the promise of “the best desserts in America” and led him down Cannery Row.

The high street was named for the old sardine canneries that used to fill the area. Even the aquarium was in a building that had once been a cannery. Most of them had shut down in the mid 50s before becoming shops, restaurants, and hotels for all of the tourists that now visited Monterey.

“It’s not the way I pictured it from the novel,” Arthur remarked, turning his head from side to side as he took in the old industrial buildings.

“Just imagine it with more nostalgia,” I suggested. “I don’t think it looked the way the book described even when Steinbeck was writing about it.”

“Well, isn’t that the heart of fiction? Maybe the place you’re writing about isn’t entirely real, but the themes and concepts you want to convey are.”

I was struck by Arthur’s comment. “It sounds like you’ve tried your hand at writing.”

Arthur turned his head and smiled at me. “Haven’t we all? Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I replied, thinking about the many books I had started writing. _Finishing_ them was always a tougher story.

“Oh? What do you write about?”

I had never really discussed my story ideas with other people because each story felt like it was a part of me, but I didn’t mind sharing one with Arthur. “Well… the one I’m trying to finish at the moment is about two brothers during the Revolutionary War. They end up fighting on different sides. It’s supposed to be about them coming to terms with a break in the family. I’m not happy with the ending though,” I admitted.

“Well, it sounds fascinating. I’d be happy to offer suggestions if you’d care for them.”

“I’ll think about it,” I replied. My very English intern would probably have an interesting perspective on the forlorn manuscript sitting in the messy pile on my desk. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to share something that still felt so raw and unpolished.

We reached a sign that declared we’d arrived at the Ghirardelli Chocolate Company and I led Arthur inside the bustling shop. It looked like a typical seaside ice cream parlor—bright and cheerful with loads of tourists. A smiling employee gave us free samples of caramel-filled chocolate bites near the entrance. I ate mine happily and we joined the line to order ice cream. I already knew that I wanted the butterscotch hot fudge sundae, so I spent the next few minutes in line discussing the choices with Arthur and offering my suggestions.

He decided to go for a waffle bowl filled with butter pecan and mint chocolate chip. I paid for both of us over his objection and led him to the outside deck overlooking the bay. We found a table for two and took a moment to enjoy our ice cream in silence.

The cold vanilla ice cream and hot fudge mingled happily in my mouth. It was sweet and silky smooth, just the way I remembered. Trying not to be too obvious about it, I watched eagerly as Arthur took a few dainty bites of each ice cream flavor. He smiled to himself, and I felt victory at hand. “Admit it, it’s pretty good.”

“It’s not bad, but I’m not sure it’s really _American_.”

“Of course it’s American!”

He arched an eyebrow. “With a name like _Ghirardelli_ it sounds like you need to import Italian styles if you want good chocolate.”

“Just because Ghirardelli moved from Italy doesn’t mean he’s not American. That’s like saying _I’m_ not American because of my Italian nonna,” I huffed.

“I didn’t mean to hit a sore spot,” Arthur replied. He lifted up his hands and I realized I’d been a little quick to jump down his throat. “Let’s agree it’s better than that sandy tasteless rubbish that Hershey calls chocolate and move on to a different topic,” he suggested.

Not wanting to get into a big fight with my intern over nationality and chocolate, I nodded my head in agreement. “Okay. Wanna guess what sort of books Bella writes?”

“Cat murder mysteries?”

I grinned. In all the time I’d been asking the question, no one had ever gotten the answer right. “You’d think so, but no. She mostly does some pretty dark historical novels set between World War I and World War II.”

“Huh. I suppose she needs _something_ to balance out all that fluff.” Arthur brushed off some cat fur that was still clinging to his trousers and smiled. “I have to say, that meeting wasn’t what I expected. She seemed less like a client and more like…”

“…a friend? Yeah, one of the advantages of being a small publishing house is that we really get to know our writers as individuals.”

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure providing a personal touch also decreases the likelihood of them being poached by a larger firm,” he added slyly in response.  

“There’s that,” I agreed with a grin. “But Golden Gateway goes out of its way to make our entire staff including writers feel like they’re part of a tight-knit community.”

Arthur raised a brow as if he was prompting me to elaborate so I dug around in my mind for something to help me explain.

“Like, for example, every year we hold an ugly Christmas sweater party where everybody shows up and we give out prizes for best, or I guess worst, sweater.” A lopsided grin spread over my face as I recalled the events of last year. “Bella’s ‘Meowy Catmas’ sweater won last year. You could probably hear our whole office cackling about it from the next building over.”

“Someone had a more ridiculous jumper than you? I’d be hard pressed to believe that.” He chewed thoughtfully on the maraschino cherry that had topped his sundae, continuing after he swallowed. “You seem like the type of person to have an obnoxious assortment of tacky Christmas jumpers in your holiday arsenal.”

“Oh, I do. Every day in December is ugly Christmas sweater day for me. But don’t worry, I keep it classy. I still wear my tie underneath them,” I added with a wink.

“Still, I’m not quite sure that ugly Christmas jumpers are my idea of a selling point,” Arthur replied, sending me a pensive look. For a second I thought that he was talking about _me_ , before I realized that he was still going on about the relative merits of small publishing houses versus big ones.

As our ice cream slowly disappeared, we continued chatting about different publishing houses. I explained that I liked working for a boutique publisher because we could be selective. I also enjoyed the close-knit community and our workplace flexibility. Would we be able to spend an afternoon in Monterey if we worked for a big bureaucratic firm? I don’t think so.

For his part, Arthur wished that we had more resources to help struggling authors tell their stories. He had found diamonds in the rough while reviewing manuscripts over the weekend, but Golden Gateway Publishing just didn’t have the time or manpower to polish them all.

“Of course, the big publishers also expect you to specialize in a narrow area. I prefer…” Arthur trailed off as his buzzing phone interrupted him. He glanced down, fiddling with his cell for a moment.

“Anything important?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Just my brother. Probably wants to know if the care package arrived.”

“Tell him Ghirardelli is better than Cadburys.”

Arthur snorted. “I will do nothing of the sort.”

While he put away his phone, I ate a few more bites of my sundae. My spoon clinked against the bowl and I realized I had almost finished it off without offering any to Arthur. “You wanna try some of this?” I asked, pushing the bowl closer to him. He took a few bites and then returned the favor, letting me sample from his tasty waffle cone. The ice cream flavors were pretty good, although I still preferred my sundae. “So what were you gonna say? Something about editors getting to try their hand at lots of topics?”

“Oh, yes. I enjoy that we’re not pigeonholed into one genre here.”

“Yeah, it’s a real advantage,” I agreed. As I finished off the last of my ice cream, a potential solution to my workplace crush problem wormed its way into my head. If Arthur wanted to explore different genres, then it would make sense to pass him along to the other senior editors at the firm for the rest of his internship. We would still maintain close contact with one another but there would be no more of the complicated boss/employee vibes that currently plagued our relationship. Once he became either Elizabeta’s or Roderich’s intern, I would stop being his boss and start being just a coworker, and if that happened I would be free to ask him out on an actual date. I smiled to myself. What could possibly go wrong?


	7. Chapter 7

“Ah, the baby has finally decided to give me a ring. How delightful.”

My expression instantly soured as I held the phone to my ear. Was it only my brothers that made me want to unsheath curses that would make even a sailor flush, or was every family like that?

“Piss off, Steven. You’re the one who called me.”

“That I did!” the man on the other line conceded with crackling laughter. “Maybe if you weren’t out getting plastered we could have already had this conversation.”

“I wasn’t getting sloshed,” I quickly defended, though my voice deflated as I thought the better of it. Perhaps it was more sensible to have my brother assume I’d missed his call because I was out at the pub rather than getting ice cream with my boss. I’d never be able to explain my way out of that one.

With a sigh I picked the conversation back up. “Was there something you needed, Steven? If you’re calling to rant about the latest episode of Top Gear, I really can’t say I give a rat’s arse.”

“Put a sock in it, Arthur. As if I’d call a Nancy boy like you to discuss prime television.”

I let out another long sigh, kneading my temples. It had been a long day, albeit a nice one of following Alfred to and fro, but I hardly needed it to end with an aggravating call from my brother.

“What is it then? Are you just calling to remind me that I’m a dunce?”

There was a snort on the other end and then a brief pause as Steven took a sip of something. I liked to think it was just a cuppa, but knowing my brother it was probably something a bit stronger.

“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind, but thanks for reminding me, lad.” Steven cleared his throat, like a verbal drumroll. “Arthur, you’re a dunce.”

“Dutifully noted,” I said as I rolled my eyes and leaned back into the cushions. “But honestly, Steven, I’m zonked. What is it you want?”

“Alright, alright. I wouldn’t want to keep the baby up past his bedtime.” I didn’t even bother to dignify that with a response so my brother continued. “I’ve gotten some information the masses are not yet privy to.”

“Of course. Then let’s have it, 007,” I encouraged as my eyelids started to droop. I doubted my brother had anything of real value to say so I wanted the conversation over as soon as possible. That might explain why my groggy, passive mind didn’t quite know how to react when Steven actually said something of worth.

“I’ve become aware of an employment vacancy not yet open to the public,” Steven began, sounding quite sure of himself. He paused a moment as if for dramatic effect. “Pendleton Books is looking for a copy editor, Arthur.”

For a moment I felt almost as if I were away, out of body and mind, like the words hadn’t quite registered and were simply floating about me instead. After a minute Steven spoke up again.

“Arthur, did you hear me?” he asked, ready to repeat the news but I stopped him as the information sunk in.

“Pendleton Books?” I replied incredulously. They were a big time name in publishing, headquartered in London. No doubt Alfred had heard of them; half the books on the shelf in his office were probably issued by Pendleton. But how on earth had Steven learnt of such a position? It took me only a moment to put two and two together.

“That’s a load of codswallop. You’re pulling my leg.”

My brother scoffed and it crackled through the poor connection.

“I call you from halfway round the world with a great job offer, and this is how you thank me?” Steven huffed. “No wonder the girls don’t like you, Arthur.”

I bit my lip but didn’t reply. It was true that my brothers had played me for a fool as a boy, but Steven wouldn’t be so cruel as to do it now, would he? He had been halfway decent when I was given the slip back in August…

“Honest to God, Arthur, they’re looking for an intermediate level editor. You know my friend Tom who works on the sixth floor? His sister works for Pendleton and mentioned it in passing. He in turn happened to tell me, and being the dutiful brother that I am, I’m passing that information on to you.”

“You’re kidding…” was all I could think to say because my mind was stirring. An intermediate editor at Pendleton Books? That would have been my dream job. If only the vacancy had been around in the summer.

“I’m not, and I’d appreciate it if you’d sound a little less bored, and a bit more grateful.”

“Steven, I…” I began but veered off, not quite knowing what to say. A job at a large publishing house would be marvelous, and no doubt would pay better than my internship, but…

“Fine, Fine. I see you’re at a loss for words so I’ll just forward you Tom’s sister’s number and you can thank me later.”

Sometimes while reading a book, I often felt at odds with the choices a character made. Why on earth would you take the path with the smallest return, or with no known destination when you could simply make the right choice, the sane choice? I understood that those decisions were the ones that forced characters on long adventures and towards their own unique development but it nevertheless oftentimes had me throwing a book against a wall. That’s a bit how I felt as the words rushed past my lips without any prior thought.

“Steven, I appreciate you telling me this, but I’m happy here.”

My brother didn’t respond. Maybe he was waiting for the full force of what I’d just said to sink in and for me to backtrack.

“What are you, crazy?” Steven replied after a terse moment of silence. “Arthur, this job’s gotta pay at least double what you’re making at the internship, not to mention you’ve got connections and a good shot.” I chewed my tongue as my brother spoke. What he was saying was true, and quite honestly it hurt to hear. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’ll message you this number, you’re gonna apply for and get the job, then you’re gonna give the Yanks the ol’ two finger salute and get the hell out of there. Got it?”

The thought of bidding Alfred adieu so rudely and heading home was amusing for a moment, but the more I mulled it over, the more steadfast I became in my decision.

“Steven, I said it before, but I’m not interested. I enjoy the work here,” I insisted as my mind traveled to manuscripts and felines before settling on the memory of a grinning face. “And the Yanks have been good to me, believe it or not.”

Again my brother scoffed but it turned into a cough, sounding slightly less intimidating. When it passed he spoke up, sounding like the stern older brother that used to put me in my place.

“Well, Arthur, I can see you’re not of sound mind tonight so I won’t waste my time trying to convince you otherwise.” I swallowed quietly and listened. “I’m gonna let you stew on this for a couple of nights, and when the muck in your brain has finally cleared, you give me a ring and I’ll pass on her number. The position won’t open to the public until the end of the month, so you’ve got until then.”

I too lacked the energy to start an argument with my brother so I just tiredly nodded along to what he was saying, eager to end the call. “Ta, Steven.”

“Don’t thank me until you’ve come to your senses,” he replied and I couldn’t muster much more than a grunt in reply.

“Take care, Steven,” I managed, and my brother paused once more, likely for another sip of something.

“Night, Arthur,” his garbled voice finally came. “I hope you enjoyed your candy” were his last words, followed by the blissful din of the dial tone.

* * *

 

The week passed quickly, and in the blink of an eye, it was Friday morning. That was something I greatly enjoyed about working at Golden Gateway. Unlike my last position where I constantly eyed the clock waiting for a day filled with monotonous descriptions of granite countertops and hardwood floors to end, here each day brought new stories, and terrible puns on behalf of one blond superior.

I was prompt, as usual. I’d been arriving about twenty minutes early every day since my initial cock up on the first day. It seemed like an average, casual Friday, with Gilbert greeting me in his jeans and tucked in polo shirt. I myself had gone with a long sleeve number as the chill finally started to pick up in the mid-October air. It was hard to believe I’d already been working at Golden Gateway for nearly two months. Where did the time go?

As I ventured into the office and settled in, hanging up my coat, and clearing off some fast food debris that Alfred had left out from yesterday’s lunch, a polite knock came from the doorframe. I turned to find Roderich standing there, his glasses balanced precariously atop his nose, dressed in a warm brown suit. Roderich didn’t believe in casual Fridays, but he didn’t badger anyone else about it. He was always timely and civil in the few interactions we’d had which left me with a rather vague but positive impression of him.

“Good morning,” he greeted me, and I responded likewise. “Sorry to interrupt,” he began, eyeing the ketchup packets and plastic utensils in my hands, before making eye contact once more. “I just wanted to say that I look forward to working with you beginning on Monday.”

I blinked at him once. 

“Pardon?” I asked, racking my brain for some hint as to what he was talking about. I didn’t recall Alfred mentioning something about me working alongside Roderich the following week, but that didn’t mean anything. In fact once I thought about it, I realized Alfred _had_ been slipping in and out of the office quite a bit the past few days. Perhaps he’d been making vacation arrangements that he forgot to mention.

“Beginning next week, you’ll be reporting to me,” Roderich elaborated, as I merely stared in what I hoped was not a gaping or befuddled fashion. “Did Alfred not tell you that he’s decided to transfer you to my apprenticeship?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, and I must have mirrored his expression.

“Alfred… had me transferred?” I questioned, mouth going slightly dry.

“Yes. He proposed the exchange early this week, and I just completed the paperwork this morning.”

“I see,” I replied, though I did not see anything at all.

Roderich folded his arms and looked slightly uncomfortable as if he’d spoiled something for me that he wasn’t meant to. “I’m sorry,” he said at once. “I thought Alfred would have discussed it with you.”

I waved my soon-to-be superior off. After all, he hadn’t wronged me. He was simply passing on valuable information.

“No worries,” I assured him, as I tossed Alfred’s leftovers in the bin. “I look forward to working with you.”

With a nod Roderich was on his way and I was left staring blankly at fast food remnants in the rubbish bin.

* * *

 

“Good morning!” Alfred greeted, chipper as always despite his cold-flushed cheeks. He handed me the usual Starbucks Earl Grey and put his own steaming cup down on his desk before unzipping his vintage jacket to reveal a warm cream coloured sweater that hugged his body. I might have spent more time eyeing his trendy ensemble—which also included tight black jeans and a pair of brown leather Oxfords—if my mind hadn’t been occupied with something a bit more pressing.

“Yes,” I responded rather monotone. “And the last we’ll be sharing together from what I hear.”

Alfred froze where he stood bent over his monitor, in the midst of bringing it back to life. His eyebrows knitted together but otherwise he didn’t look too concerned.

“Aw man, Roderich let it slip, huh?” he said casually, turning his attention back to the screen. “I mean I’m assuming it was Roderich since Gilbert probably can’t even remember what he had for breakfast this morning, let alone an intern transfer.”

“Did everyone in the office know about this reassignment besides me?” I asked, admittedly a bit too loudly, but at least it garnered Alfred’s attention. So much so that for once he felt the need to close his office door, the tiny metallic click of the latch not doing much to soothe my ruffled feathers.

“Easy now, it’s not a big deal,” he did his best to assure me, but as he tried to lay a hand on my shoulder I jerked away.  I wanted him to express himself through words rather than meaningless reassuring touches. He frowned slightly as he retracted his hand.

“Arthur, I am sorry I didn’t tell you earlier but I wanted it to be a surprise,” he explained, though I still eyed him dubiously. “Do you remember on Monday at the ice cream parlor?” he began, rubbing awkwardly at his cotton clad elbow. “You’d mentioned that you liked the fact that Golden Gateway experiments with many genres.” I did recall saying something like that. “So I thought, hey, you’ve been working with me on historical fiction for a solid six weeks. Now’s a great time for a change.”

My eyes softened if only slightly as I stood silently and listened. I wanted to retort. I wanted to say something like “And you didn’t think maybe I should have a say in the matter?” but the words died on my lips. What say _did_ I have in this? I was only an intern, nothing more.

Meanwhile Alfred continued with a lengthy defense of his actions, insisting that, “As an intern you should try your hand at several genres, to see which works best for you!” He made some broad, unimpressive hand gestures as I stared blankly. “Roderich works mostly with horror and suspense novels which is something you’d never get with me,” he admitted, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Anyway, I thought this was the best way for you to diversify and gain more traction with the company.” He then paused to offer a small smile that grew with the words that followed. “Besides, if you’re stuck with me all the time, no one else will realize what a brilliant editor you are.”

My eyes widened at those words, and while Alfred may have continued to ramble on afterwards, my mind faltered, skidding to a halt at the phrase “brilliant editor.” The last time I’d heard those words… The last time I’d been deemed a so-called “brilliant editor”…

Alfred was offering me a sheepish smile, so I just nodded at whatever he’d said after I stopped listening. It was probably just another string of false reassurances like it had been at my last job; something sweet to cover the sour right before they fired me.

I got to work, eager to bury myself in something other than the newest thoughts that were swirling around in my mind. But it didn’t help that every time I looked up, Alfred was giving me the same type of pitying smile that Mrs. Spalding had given me the day she’d let me go.

My stomach turned at the fourth or fifth glance of that unnerving smile. “Excuse me a moment,” I nearly stammered. I pushed back on my chair a bit too eagerly, eliciting a harsh screech from the poor old rickety piece of furniture, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I hastily made my way to the bathroom, and inside I lay my hands on the cool white granite sink a minute before turning on the tap and splashing myself with some water. I stared at my reflection in the polished glass.

“Listen to me,” I told myself, looking down at the man speaking, whose hair desperately needed a trim. “This is not like back then. Alfred is not Mrs. Spalding. He’s doing you a favor. Nothing bad is going to happen.” I slapped myself, once, twice, three times, bringing color to my cheeks. “Stop being ridiculous.”

For a moment my mind did drift, to the story of a girl, who, like me, had landed in a queer place and managed to make quite a mess of things in her time there. Just like Alice, I thought, recalling a line from the novel; despite giving myself tremendous advice, I very seldom followed it.

* * *

 

If I was to be honest, by Wednesday I’d decided that I rather enjoyed having Roderich as a supervisor, and in many ways I found him more agreeable than Alfred. He was quiet, clean, and polite. He offered well-thought out feedback, and encouraged me to delve deeper into the supernatural and gore filled tales that were certainly not my forte. Still, I would have never pinned Roderich as the horror type, and every time my eyes wandered over to a bookshelf full of the works of Stephen King, something felt off.

“How does one even go about learning the differentiations in gunshot wounds and blood stain patterns?” I wondered aloud, which was a habit I must have picked up from Alfred, because I’d most definitely never had any interest in engaging in friendly conversation with co-workers prior to meeting him.

Roderich glanced up from his work with a slightly startled look on his face as if he were surprised to hear me speak.

“A lot of research goes into the production of the horror genre,” he said after a moment, returning to his computer. “Many of our authors spend months or even years researching topics from mythology to criminal affairs and medical texts.” As I listened, I eyed a spot on the wall behind Roderich’s head that held his framed Master’s degree. “Unfortunately, for some reason they are not credited with the same level of intensive research as their counterparts in science or historical fiction.”

“That’s a shame,” I replied quietly, more to myself than towards Roderich who seemed more interested in delving back into his files than in continuing the conversation. Not that I minded. I enjoyed the silent, if sometimes eerie atmosphere of Roderich’s office, but oddly enough, sometimes I found myself straining to hear the incessant tapping of a pen on a desk, or the rather obnoxious zipping sound of an old chair swiveling round and around.

I shook my mind to clear it, but while it had already been a week, I found my thoughts returning to Alfred on multiple occasions. Though Roderich was nice enough, and seemed pleased with my work, I couldn’t shake the doubt of Alfred’s true reason for reassigning me. He had, after all, originally said that he intended to train me fully so, why...? The only reason I could come up with was that I hadn’t performed. My work had not been in line with Alfred’s expectations despite his assurances otherwise. Alfred transferred me to the polite but stern Roderich as a second chance, to improve my poor editing skills. I was only still here because Alfred was too kind to discard me within the month.

I let out a short exhale from my nose, determined to get back to work, but the more I thought about it, the more I began to fidget. I hadn’t done anything wrong. No, in fact I was the perfect worker. Roderich commended my work just as much as Alfred had, which made the praise more credible. And who else worked overtime without the overtime pay? What other intern went out of their way to show up early every morning, tidying the pigsty of his boss’ desk? But if neither my skill set or dedication were in question, then the only other possible explanation for the transfer would be that Alfred didn’t get along with me. I bit down on my pen cap as I mulled it over. That had to be it… it was the only understandable explanation if I wasn’t truly in line to be fired, and yet... Could Alfred really have been acting the whole time? I must have put quite the strain on him to force such a cheery façade for the last two months. How on earth had I not noticed before?

“Arthur,” the calm calling of Roderich’s voice brought me back from my thoughts. I was grateful.

“Yes?”

“I have a meeting with one of my authors and her agent,” he said, packing away some papers into his leather briefcase. “She’s a young girl of only 16 who produces magnificently. However, seeing as she is underage I have to get her to sign some extra documentation with her representative,” he continued, though with a sigh near the end there. “If only her agent was less of a hassle.”

“I could go in your stead if you’d like,” I offered.

He shook his head immediately. “I appreciate the offer, but I think it best that you stay here and continue your work on that promising manuscript. Two men find themselves trapped at Disneyland during a zombie apocalypse, was it?”

“Yes. Doesn’t quite sound like the most magical place on earth anymore.”

My joke didn’t go over terribly well as Roderich merely nodded while he buttoned up his coat.

“Very well then, carry on. Please lock the office upon your departure. I don’t trust Gilbert to do so.”

Nobody seemed to trust Gilbert to do much of anything besides be a nuisance.

“Of course.”

Roderich made a point to close the door, sealing in a quiet work environment, and I hastily returned to the task at hand. Still, for the first time since I began work at Golden Gateway I found myself looking up at the clock, and every once in a while, expecting to find a National Parks calendar tacked next to it on the wall.

* * *

 

The rest of the week passed without incident and before I knew it, it was Monday once more, but something was different about that Monday morning.

“The heater’s broken,” Roderich informed me as I went about removing my coat. Thinking twice, I decided I could use some extra warmth and sat down with it hanging off my shoulders. “Gilbert’s arranging repairs but they likely won’t arrive until at least mid-afternoon.”

That prediction proved true, and by 2pm I was feeling a little chilly and a tad bit adventurous as I made my way to the break room. I doubted the office maintained an electric kettle so I thought I’d try my hand at brewing myself a cup of coffee. I did not, however, expect to find a familiar face standing in front of the coffee pot, watching the brown liquid drip into the glass decanter.

“Hiya!” Alfred greeted me with a smile. “Long time, no see!” he said, though that wasn’t really true at all. Oddly enough, since I’d departed from Alfred’s office, he continued to bring by a steaming cup of tea every morning. The only difference now being that he also brought around a cappuccino for Roderich and a pumpkin spice latte for Elizabeta. I didn’t quite know what to make of this behaviour, but chalked it up to Alfred’s kind demeanor and the increasingly cooling temperatures. Still, despite the intermittent tea bringing, this was the first time I’d been alone with Alfred since I took up my new role at Roderich’s side.

“Good afternoon,” I began lightly, not quite knowing what to say. Alfred was likely just forcing some friendly chit-chat, so I felt compelled to do the same.

“How’s it going?” he asked, as the coffee continued to brew in the background. “You know, besides the whole freezing your balls off thing,” Alfred continued, and I realized he had his suit jacket buttoned up, something he never did unless he was reporting to a management meeting. “How do you like all those spooky manuscripts? Now’s definitely the right time for them.”

Ah yes, Halloween was fast approaching, wasn’t it? I’d been so occupied with work the past few weeks I hardly noticed that everything had become pumpkin scented, and now October was nearly over.

“It’s nice. I had no idea there were so many methods for murder.”

Alfred laughed, deep and throaty as usual. I twitched as I waited for him to still. Was this just a polite act?

“Never thought I’d hear those two sentences back to back,” Alfred commented with a smile, sliding a Styrofoam cup off the stack stationed next to the coffeemaker. “Would you like some?”

“Please,” I replied with a curt nod, wrapping an arm around myself in an attempt to feel smaller, more insignificant. Alfred filled the cup about an inch from the rim and held it out to me.

“So Arthur, I’ve been thinking,” Alfred began as he handed me the cup of Joe, as they called it. Perhaps if I had still been working under Alfred I might have responded more playfully. Something along the lines of “Oh dear. I hope you haven’t hurt yourself.” But as it was, with these questionable circumstances, it hardly felt the place for any friendly banter. In fact, feeling quite out of place, I wasn’t much in the mood for any chats at all.

“Actually, Alfred,” I cut him off, taking a step back, and then another. “I really must be getting back to my work.”

Alfred cocked an eyebrow and looked perplexed for a second, but it passed just as easily as it had come, and his face was quickly replaced with a smile.

“Always the busy bee,” he said with a grin as he went about pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Well I guess I’ll catch you later.”

I barely managed a nod as I swiftly made my escape from the tension in the room… yet, had there been any tension? Alfred seemed perfectly civil, but then again, I simply didn’t know what to make of him anymore. My confusion was only worsened a few days later when Roderich invited me to sit in on a meeting of the editors, when low and behold, a certain blue-eyed and smiling blond editor went out of his way to sit beside me in the second row from the back of the conference room. Warily I eyed him as he took his seat, completely disregarding the vacant chairs at the front of the room where he was no doubt supposed to be.

“I didn’t know you were sitting in today,” he said with that ever persistent smile. He crossed a leg over his knee and laid a memo pad on it.

“I can’t say the same, seeing as you always attend these biweekly meetings,” I replied with a small forced smile. “Speaking of, shouldn’t you be near the front with the other senior editors?” I questioned. From where I was I could see Roderich and Elizabeta sitting in the front row, with a few of the agency’s junior editors filling up the intermediate space.

“Oh pfft, nah,” he answered, waving his hand in the air as if to emphasize it. “As long as I’m present and awake, management won’t mind.”

“I see,” I relented, not much willing to inquire further. That disinterest, however, did not stop Alfred from pursuing a conversation.

“I got the latest chapter from Bella this morning,” he spoke giddily, with eyes shining. “You wouldn’t believe how she wound up killing Victor. It was a struggle just to pull myself away from my computer to sit in on this meeting.”

And so the chatter dragged on, not just for the brief few minutes before the meeting, but throughout it as well. For forty minutes Alfred was constantly in my ear whispering commentary that ranged from “Hey look! That novel you edited is finally in post-production!” to “That tie, with those shoes? I don’t know what Jonathan was thinking.” Near the end of the meeting I was picking at my fingernails, itching to get out of the room and get some fresh air, but even then Alfred protracted the conversation. As the meeting concluded and the other employees returned to their respective offices, Alfred turned toward me, stilling me with a hand on my shoulder.

“You, me, Golden Gate Park, this Saturday,” he declared with a blinding grin. “I can show you around and we could even check out the botanical gardens if you’re interested.” He gave my shoulder a small squeeze. “What do you say?”

I stared at Alfred uncomprehendingly. What was going on here?

“You want to go on another excursion?” I enquired as if I had misheard. But how could that be? No matter how I did the math, this result still did not make sense.

“Of course!” he chirped, eagerly flashing me another blinding grin. “Sorry for the short notice. I was gonna ask you the other day in the break room so you’d have a bit more time to prepare, but you seemed busy.”

Indeed I had been busy… busy working for my _new editor_. This simply didn’t seem to add up. I had understood the initial tour when I’d first arrived. That was just Alfred going out of his way to be polite to the newly arrived foreigner. But the additional outings, the trips to Alcatraz and the aquarium, those were friendlier in nature; they’d been companionable outings between co-workers. But if that was the case... how could it be that Alfred wanted to go on another day trip now that he’d ousted me from his office? The more I thought about it the more troubled I became.

“No.” I at once decided, before fully processing it. I wouldn’t go. It wouldn’t feel right.

It might have been my imagination but Alfred looked crestfallen, if only for a second. After it passed he was laughing again, waving his hand around like it was no big deal, because it wasn’t. I stood firm in my decision. Until I could parcel out exactly what my relationship with Alfred was, I wasn’t willing to bother him with any further trips. “I appreciate the offer but I really haven’t a free moment this weekend.”

“No biggie,” Alfred beamed. “You’re busy, that’s cool. Maybe some other time then.”

I wasn’t sure if that last part of his sentence was a question or a statement so I just made a hum of agreement before slipping out of the room and reporting back to Roderich. While I made my escape, my mind involuntarily began to run through memories of our time together, and I was temporarily transported back to greasy onion rings on the pier, personal but not altogether uncomfortable conversations, terrible puns, and to the soft pink potted tulip that sat beside a row of spices on my kitchen countertop. I couldn’t deny that altogether the memories were pleasant and yet… I couldn’t help but wish that they weren’t. Maybe that would make things easier.

Upon reaching the office I was momentarily distracted by a brief discussion with Roderich regarding the contents of the meeting, and soon thereafter I was back in the depths of a manuscript. But despite my best attempts, my mind lingered elsewhere.

How strange it was that as I read page after page in a book built on thrills and suspense, my only thoughts were not on what would happen next, but on what had passed; a queer and incomprehensible nostalgia.

* * *

 

It was rather brisk at half-past 11 on a late October evening, and as such, I scrambled for my lighter after pulling a fag out of my pocket. I’d picked up a pack on the way home from the office and was already halfway through it. Some part of me was disappointed in myself, seeing as I’d been off the nicotine since my second week in America when the stress of moving had finally started to ebb. Not wanting to think about that, I squandered the thought away, suffocating it with lovely wisps of silver smoke.

I stood outside in the breeze for a moment, maybe two, before I dug my mobile out of my pocket. It wasn’t hard to smoke and dial at the same time. He had been the first name in my recently rung tab after all. I let out a puff of smoke with a small faux smile as a tired grunt answered me in place of a hello.

“Good morning, Steven” I greeted, before skipping straight to the point. “Be a dear and send me the information for that position at Pendleton.” I snuffed out the cigarette, watching the bright embers darken beneath my merciless sole. “I’ve had a change of heart.”

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Although Halloween wasn’t quite as awesome as the Fourth of July (which, in addition to featuring freedom, fireworks, and fried food, had the added bonus of being my birthday), it had always been one of my favorite holidays. Every kid loves walking around the neighborhood asking strangers for candy. Even when I outgrew the trick-or-treating, I still enjoyed the holiday because I could buy bags of chocolate from the grocery store and just let everyone _assume_ that I was preparing for trick-or-treaters. The truth was, I was devouring most of that candy all by myself while I binged on bad horror films.

I hadn’t _meant_ to spend the past few days watching horror films, but I couldn’t seem to find a time to meet up with Arthur outside of work. At first, when he turned down my suggestion to visit the San Francisco Botanical Gardens, I assumed that he was busy and shrugged it off. And when he declined an invitation to walk across Golden Gate Bridge, I decided that he was scared of heights or didn’t like walking outside in the chilly October weather. But when he said no to a trip on the cable cars to Ghirardelli Square, I knew something was seriously wrong. Who could say no to cable cars and Ghirardelli?

There was only one explanation: while working in the horror division, Arthur had come across a cursed manuscript that had trapped his soul and replaced him with a pod person. Even though he _looked_ the same, the pod person controlling Arthur had removed part of his personality. Only _I_ had noticed the difference and only _I_ had the power to rescue him by breaking the curse.

…okay, even I knew that explanation was ridiculous. Clearly I had been watching too many horror films lately.

Even though I hadn’t managed to take Arthur on a proper date, I was still cheerful because I knew I’d have a chance to chat with him at our annual office costume party. This year’s theme was Children’s Literature, which I knew he would love. By the time October 31st rolled around, I had a great costume and plenty of candy to share.

Thankful as always for the laidback atmosphere at Golden Gateway Publishing, I grinned and nodded at my coworkers as I joined them in the large conference room around four o’clock. Gilbert was a mediocre employee with respect to his actual job tasks, but he had put an amazing effort into decorating the room for Halloween. Bats, spiders, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling, while bloody handprints covered the bulletin board. A doll with buttons for eyes stared at me from the corner. I shivered and walked to the other side of the room, where I was delighted to find a table overflowing with candy and sweets. I was pretty sure that Gilbert’s impressive party-planning was one of the reasons we had never gotten around to firing him.

Tucking my wand in my pocket, I grabbed a chocolate cupcake with orange frosting and glanced around the room. I ran through my plan of attack for the party as I took a bite out of my spooky sweet. I wanted to check out the various costumes and I also needed to find Arthur so I could get him to admit that American candy was delicious. Unfortunately, I couldn’t spot his messy golden hair anywhere. It was probably covered by a hat or mask.

Turning my attention back to the other folks gathered around the desserts table, I nodded at Bella in her Little Red Riding Hood cape and grinned when I saw Roderich in the same tuxedo and fangs costume he had worn for the past three years running. We had a betting pool for when he would finally get a new costume and it looked like my bet for ‘never’ was still going strong. The elegant vampire poured some red fruit punch into a wine glass and took a dainty sip. The rest of us were using red solo cups, but trust Roderich to ensure that even his glasswear matched his costume.

“You know, I don’t think Bram Stoker’s _Dracula_ is much of a children’s book,” I said, my robes swishing as I joined him next to the punch bowl.

He shrugged imperviously. “It should be.”

Roderich could come up with all the rationalizations he wanted, but we all knew that he was too cheap to buy a different costume when he already owned a perfectly good tuxedo. Personally, I thought he probably relished the opportunity to come to work in a coat and tails.

At the other end of the costume spectrum, Gilbert had done his best to blend into the crowd with a red-and-white knit cap covering his shock of white hair and dark-rimmed glasses hiding his face. But his red striped shirt and blue jeans made his costume obvious enough. With his boisterous personality, he was a bit too conspicuous to be a good Waldo from _Where’s Waldo_.

A white-clad figure silently glided behind me, making me jump and nearly drop my cupcake. When I turned around for a better look, all I could see was a white sheet covering a body from head to foot. The costume’s only distinguishing marks were dark cut-outs for the eyes and a painted smile.

“Arthur, is that you?” I asked tentatively, since the figure was slender and about the right height. If it was him, he had clearly spent too long in the horror department under Roderich’s tutelage. Maybe it was a time to suggest a transfer to Elizabeta in the romance division.

“Ah, no. Sorry for startling you, Mr. Jones,” the ghost apologized politely.

“Oh, hey Honda.” I replied with a half-hearted grin. As much as I had tried, I had never managed to convince Kiku to switch to a first name basis. “Scary costume,” I remarked.

“Is it?” He tilted his head to the side. “I was aiming for friendly.”

“Don’t let Casper fool you. There is no such thing as a friendly ghost.”

There was an awkward silence for a few moments before Kiku coughed and changed the subject. He distracted me from the creepiness of his painted smile by discussing his next destination for his travelogue on the Best Places in the World to Befriend Roaming Cats. The editors were still working on a better title, but I agreed that the book would certainly sell like catnip. I made a mental note to make sure that Arthur had a chance to edit the manuscript. After our trip to Bella’s, I knew it would be purrfect for him.

Kiku soon excused himself to go try the cupcakes, though I had no idea how he planned to eat one in his costume. I, meanwhile, filled a plate with some of the best candy bars and continued searching for Arthur.

I finally found him, clad in a wide-brimmed red hat, blue raincoat, and red rain boots looking like he was ready for a rain squall in the conference room. He stood quietly next to Elizabeta and Bella as they had an animated conversation.

“…don’t know why they think adding zombies will improve the story,” I heard Elizabeta say as I drew near. In her plastic crown and poofy red-and-black dress with heart designs, I easily recognized her as the Queen of Hearts from _Alice in Wonderland_.

“Maybe they think zombies will be the next young adult craze,” Bella suggested. “Goodbye sexy vampire, hello sexy zombie.”

“Hmm, I suppose Romeo and Juliet and Zombies would be an improvement in the genre,” Elizabeta replied. Anyone who spent more than ten minutes talking with her about romances knew how much she hated that tragedy. Her gaze drifted my way and she nodded at me and glanced down at my plateful of treats. “Wow. I hope you haven’t eaten _all_ of the candy.”

“Just the good stuff!” I said with a cheeky grin.

She rolled her eyes. “Come on, we’d better grab something before Gilbert polishes it all off,” Elizabeta remarked to Bella. For some reason, she winked at me as she and Little Red walked away, leaving me alone with Arthur.

He stared at me awkwardly, like he wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Perhaps I should visit the dessert table too,” Arthur suggested, avoiding my eyes as he slowly inched away.

“Wait! I need to figure out your costume first,” I replied, blocking his path before he could walk away. Leaning in closer, I noticed a small tag attached to his rain coat. ‘Please look after this bear,’ it read, giving me the clue I needed. “Paddington Bear!” I cried in delight.

Clearly pleased that I had recognized his outfit, Arthur nodded and looked up at me from underneath his wide-brimmed rain hat with a proud little smile. “I thought it was appropriate. Especially since Arthur means bear.”

In that moment, I had to resist the strong urge to hug Arthur like he was a teddy bear. It just wasn’t fair for a 26 year-old to look so adorably huggable with his cute outfit and clever play on words! Did he know that I was a huge sucker for wordplay? I winked at him and grinned. “I can _bearly_ believe how _beary_ cute your costume is.”

Arthur looked flustered, as if he couldn’t understand why I was complimenting him. “It’s only a few things I had around the house,” he said modestly.

“No, it’s great! It’s better than my lazy choice of just buying a costume.” I lifted my wand and gestured to the wizarding robes that I had purchased online.

“Obviously, I know who _you_ are,” Arthur said, examining my costume from head to toe. “But I always pictured you as more of a Gryffindor.”

“Yeah, I’m _definitely_ a Gryffindor,” I agreed cheerfully, despite the fact that my black robes had a Hufflepuff crest on the side pocket and I wore a yellow-and-black tie beneath my sweater vest. “I just like this costume ‘cause I don’t have to wear a wig.”

“Cedric Diggory?” Arthur suggested.

“Exactly! AKA, the only Hufflepuff guy anybody can name.”

“No, that can’t be right,” Arthur replied, his eyebrows scrunched in thought. “There was… hmm…” he trailed off as he tried—and failed—to come up with another name.

Even though he had been a bit distant lately, Arthur seemed to come to life as soon as we began discussing the Harry Potter books and the different houses. It reminded me of how much fun I used to have talking to Arthur back when we worked in the same office. Smiling to myself, I shamelessly admired the way his eyes lit up with excitement and the fond smile that ghosted his lips. Picking a Harry Potter costume had been a brilliant idea.

“I mean, why would Hermione be in Gryffindor?” Arthur said, waving his hands for emphasis. “She’s clearly a Ravenclaw!”

“How about you?” I asked. “Do you live with the brave at heart?”

“Oh, no,” Arthur replied with a soft chuckle. “In my opinion, Gryffindor House has too many foolhardy and show-offy people. Look at Harry. How much suffering could he have avoided if he had just thought things through before he acted?”

I laughed because it was true. “I’m guessing you prefer the house of wit and wisdom.”

“Precisely so.”

Seeing the perfect opportunity to show off the tastiness of American candy, I grinned and grabbed a crinkly packet of Smarties from my plate. “Since you’re such a smarty, I bet you’ll love these,” I explained as I offered them to Arthur.

“You have Smarties here?” he asked in excitement before taking a closer look at the candy. An expression of disappointment filled his face. “Those aren’t Smarties.”

“Uh, sure they are.” I pointed to the label, which clearly said Smarties.

“No, Smarties are chocolate with a hard candy shell. These are… sugar pellets.”

“You mean your Smarties are like M&Ms?” I asked.

Arthur nodded. “Yes, but better.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes at Arthur’s intransigent insistence on the superiority of British sweets. Recognizing that it would be difficult to get him to admit that the U.S. had good candy, I decided to try a different tactic. Nobody could resist a piece of candy delivered with a smooth one-liner!

“You know, I bet you’d like a kiss,” I said, giving him a suave smile.

Arthur’s eyes and mouth widened in surprise. But before he had a chance to respond, I opened the palm of my hand to reveal a caramel Hershey’s Kiss.

“Oh.” He faltered, laughing weakly. “The chocolate… of course.” He pushed away the candy and shook his head. “I should probably get back to work.”

As much as I admired Arthur’s Hufflepuff-like dedication, I wished he was better at loosening up. “Don’t worry about it! Everyone usually just goes home once the party’s over so we can get ready for trick-or-treaters.”

“Well, I should probably get ready for them myself,” Arthur said, excusing himself gracefully.

My heart lurched with a surge of disappointment as he walked away. Not only had I missed my chance to give him the other American candy bars I had brought over for him to try, I also failed to uncover the reason why he was still acting so oddly distant. I watched him say goodbye to Roderich and felt a sting of jealousy as he laughed at one of his new supervisor’s jokes with a relaxed smile. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why Arthur seemed slightly on edge with me, but perfectly normal around everyone else.

Not sure what any of it meant, I settled for hiding a few treats in Arthur’s desk after he left. Even Arthur would have to admit that SweetTarts, Butterfingers, and Sour Patch Gummies were absolutely delicious. ‘See how sweet Americans can be!’ I wrote, leaving him a little note and hoping the present would bring back his lovely smile.

* * *

Our next senior editors’ meeting started with leftover Halloween candy and—what was to me at least—a surprising topic of discussion.

“I know the budget is a little tight, but what are your thoughts on offering Arthur a permanent position?” Elizabeta asked. “With the holiday season coming up, I think now would be a great time to give our little intern a promotion.”

“I have no objections,” Roderich replied almost instantly. “He has been an exemplary employee.”

They both turned to look at me, probably expecting full-throated approval. I had been quite fulsome in my praise for Arthur during his two months under my supervision. If they had asked me three weeks ago, when I was still his supervisor, I wouldn’t have hesitated to recommend him as a permanent hire. But something in his recent behavior made me hold back slightly.

“He’s an excellent editor,” I agreed easily enough, because it was true. “It’s just… has he seemed kinda distant lately?”

“No.” Roderich shook his head and elegantly arched his eyebrows in surprise. “I find him to be very sociable. It’s his only real demerit.”

“Hmm.” I bit my lip, thinking to myself a moment. Obviously I knew that Roderich and I had different standards for what we considered talkative behavior. But that wasn’t enough to explain the increasingly apparent contrast between how Arthur acted with his new supervisor and how he acted with me.

It occurred to me that Arthur’s behavior might have changed _because_ I was no longer his supervisor. Perhaps he no longer saw a need to behave so charmingly when I was a simple co-worker instead of the one in charge of his assignments. Was it possible that Arthur was just a brown-noser who liked to please his boss? It didn’t jibe with everything else I knew about him, but it did fit his recent behavior patterns.

“Is something wrong?” Elizabeta wanted to know after I took a little too long to respond.

I didn’t want to poison them against Arthur, not when I didn’t understand what was going on myself, but I also wanted a chance to see how he would handle the transition to a new supervisor. Would he suck up to Elizabeta and ignore Roderich? If he did, he would prove my theory and we would know better than to hire him. “I think we should wait to make an offer until he’s done a rotation in your division,” I told Elizabeta, who in turn raised a fine eyebrow.

“If I may,” Roderich interrupted before Elizabeta could speak. “I think Arthur has proven himself sufficiently and I feel we should act now lest he pursue a more permanent position elsewhere.” He sent me a look that was equal parts suspicious and dubious. “Arthur is a man of great skill and I think we should wed him to the company before he is sought out by another.”

“I see, so Roderich wants to put a ring on it,” Elizabeta hummed with a smile as she caught my eye. “Surprising. I would have thought that’d be you, Alfred.” She winked as my mouth formed a straight line. “Still,” she started back up again, looking between Roderich and me, before settling on me once more. “I think Alfred’s suggestion is reasonable enough. Let’s see how eclectic Arthur’s skills truly are. He’ll work for me for a month, and at that point we can reconvene and make a final decision.” She raised a hand to tuck a brown wisp of hair behind her ear. “Hopefully if we’re all in agreement by then we can offer him a permanent position just before Christmas.”

Roderich nodded reluctantly in agreement. We moved on to other topics, but I spent the rest of the meeting musing over Arthur’s odd behavior. Maybe I didn’t know Arthur as well as I thought I did.

What _did_ I really know about Arthur? Mostly I knew his tastes and preferences. I knew that he liked his tea with a bit of milk and no sugar. He always paused and smiled before taking the first sip. Seeing that smile every morning was the reason I kept bringing him a cup of tea. I knew that he would sometimes stick out his tongue while he was concentrating and that he preferred to make his edits in hard-copy because he understood the story better when he saw it laid out on paper.

“We should look into another supplier,” Roderich said as he spread out a few sample sheets of creamy vellum paper. “These aren’t the right weight.”

“Uh-huh,” I agreed absentmindedly.

I knew that Arthur loved to relax and unwind with crossword puzzles and crochet during his down time. He was the sort of gentleman who charmed old ladies and made friends with the neighbors’ cats. I knew that he loved the weather in San Francisco and wished he had an outdoor area for gardening.

Even though he missed the comforts of home, Arthur was always eager to visit new places and learn about their culture and history. As long as you didn’t expect him to program the GPS, he was an excellent traveling companion. He could chat about everything and nothing; he was also happy to sit in companionable silence. And even though he was quiet around new people, once you got to know him, he had a wicked sense of humor. I loved his deadpan quips.

For all Arthur’s wit and charm, I knew that he was uncomfortable being thrust into new social situations. He liked order and stability—taking a job halfway around the world had been a leap of faith for him. To his credit, once he made a choice, he dedicated himself to it completely.

“There’ve been a few delays with the new manuscript, but I think it’ll be a real blockbuster once we get it out,” Elizabeta proudly reported.

I smiled at her. “That sounds awesome!”

But for everything I knew about Arthur, I realized that I had no idea how he felt about _me_. He wore his pleasantries like a mask, and I had a sense that he shared his true feelings with almost no one. How was I supposed to crack that shell when he barely had time to talk to me?

Elizabeta coughed and repeated a question that I had missed the first time. “Do you think you can handle the font purchase?”

“Of course!” I replied, flashing a smile that didn’t match my mood. By the time the meeting ended, I was happy to return to my desk and have some time alone with my thoughts.

It was becoming readily apparent that I didn’t know Arthur well enough to decipher his moods. Everything between us had been going so beautifully and now suddenly it wasn’t. I needed some reason to talk with Arthur outside work so I could gauge what was really going on with him.

I’d started chewing on my pencap without realizing it, and at the same time my fingertips drummed a steady beat on my keyboard. What could I do? What excuse did I have to get Arthur out of the office? I racked my brain as my eyes wandered around the room from my marked up calendar to my dog-eared copy of Gatsby that lay forlorn and forgotten on what used to be Arthur’s side of the desk. I picked up the book, if nothing else, just to savor a few words of wisdom, but there was no need. As I lifted the novel, my gaze fell onto something long buried and forgotten under half-read manuscripts and Twix wrappers. I realized that I now had the perfect excuse to meet. Something that Arthur was far too polite to decline.

When lunch time came around, I grabbed the ketchup-stained draft of my Revolutionary War novel and bustled off to find Arthur. He wasn’t in the tiny kitchenette area. I tried Roderich’s office next and found him eating lunch at his desk as he typed out a few emails.

“Hey!” I called, knocking on the partially open door.

Arthur’s head shot up and he quickly clicked out of the email program before turning around to face me. “Yes?” he asked, sounding a little tense.

“I’ve thought about it, and I’d like to take you up on your offer to read my story,” I explained as I handed a copy of the manuscript to Arthur. I had poured my heart and soul into my novel and it felt a little strange to just hand it over. But part of me wanted to share it with Arthur, even if it meant I was opening myself up to his criticism. I watched him closely to gauge his reaction.

He took it hesitantly and flipped through the first few pages before recognition filled his eyes. “Oh, right. The story about the bickering brothers.”

I chuckled. “It’s a bit more than just bickering. You still up for it?”

“Of course,” Arthur said politely, still not meeting my gaze. He didn’t sound thrilled about taking on another manuscript, but he didn’t sound upset either. It was more like the neutral tones of someone fulfilling an obligation.

Despite my disappointment at his lack of reaction, I set up a place and time for us to meet. “There’s a great tea house in Berkeley near the BART station. We could meet there next weekend once you’ve read it over,” I proposed, knowing that for Arthur ‘tea’ was almost as effective a magic word as ‘please.’

He finally looked up and I was surprised by the guarded look in his eyes. “I’ll be gone next Friday through Monday,” he said, sounding a little hesitant to admit his travel plans. “Perhaps the weekend after that? Your manuscript would give me something to do on the plane.”

I perked up with interest. “Going somewhere fun?”

“Oh… no. Something’s come up and I needed to pay a visit to my brother in London.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked, suddenly worried that I was dumping extra work on Arthur while he was dealing with family issues.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said carefully. “But I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Okay. Well, I hope everything turns out alright!” I offered him an encouraging smile.

“Me too,” Arthur agreed softly.

I would have offered him a hug too, but Arthur wasn’t really the hugging sort. Which was unfortunate; he was a couple inches shorter than me and I got the sense that wrapping him in my arms like he was a grumpy little teddy bear would have been pretty enjoyable for the both of us.

We decided on a date and time for the weekend after Arthur’s trip, and it occurred to me as I left Roderich’s office that I had discovered the _real_ reason why Arthur had been acting so detached lately. Thinking back, his strange behavior had started not long after he received a call from his brother while we were in Monterey. He had brushed it off at the time, but clearly it was something important if he was flying to London. I suddenly understood why he had declined all of my invitations. The poor guy didn’t want to meet up for sightseeing when he was dealing with family problems!

As I returned to my own desk, I felt like a jerk for suggesting that we take a little longer to review Arthur’s performance before offering him a permanent job. I was tempted to email Roderich and Elizabeta about my change of heart, but I didn’t want Arthur to think that we were making the offer out of pity.

I sighed and buried myself in my work. There was another factor to consider: I probably wasn’t the right person to make the decision on whether or not to hire Arthur. Not when I was so focused on wanting to hug him and make him smile and take him on dates. Giving Elizabeta a chance to work with Arthur directly meant that my feelings wouldn’t sway the decision. With his skill and dedication, I was sure that Arthur would win her over in no time. We would make him an offer, he would choose to stay, and perhaps I would finally have a chance to take him on that date to Ghirardelli Square that I had been dreaming about…

In the meantime, I resolved to be a model coworker to Arthur. As much as it saddened me to cut back on my Arthur time, I didn’t want to bother him while he was busy with other matters. We would have plenty of time for fun outings after his London trip.

* * *

Having spent two weeks giving Arthur a little extra space, I couldn’t stop the ecstatic grin that spread across my face when I met him at the Downtown Berkeley BART stop for our meeting concerning my draft novel. As usual, he was a good fifteen minutes early. In my eagerness to see him, I was fifteen minutes early too.

I waved happily and he gave me a polite nod in return. There was something a little different about his expression, but I had to wait until he walked closer to figure out the change. Arthur seemed much less on edge. He met my gaze directly, and for the first time in a month, I thought I saw a glimpse of cautious optimism in his eyes.

“Did everything go well in London?” I asked.

“Yes, I think so,” he replied, smiling slightly to himself.

“Awesome!” Relieved that Arthur was feeling better, I decided to lift his spirits even higher by leading him to the tea house a few blocks away. The décor inside was clean, modern, and very hipster. Fortunately for us, we were meeting early enough on a Saturday morning that most of the college students were still sleeping. We had the tea house almost to ourselves.

Chalkboard signs near the front offered a selection of teas wide enough to bring a smile to any connoisseur’s lips. I went with the bubble milk tea as always. Even _I_ loved tea when you filled it with milk and sugar and added sugary tapioca pearls to the bottom.

Arthur was of a different opinion. “I will never understand Americans’ obsession with cold tea,” he remarked as he spent a few minutes perusing the menu.

I laughed. “You might like the matcha latte. Honda says it’s fantastic.”

Arthur took my suggestion and over his protest I paid for both of us.

“You’re helping me with my story. A cup of tea is the least I can do,” I explained as we grabbed a quiet spot in the corner. Before I took a sip of mine, I offered it to Arthur. “Also, I can’t let you leave Berkeley without trying some boba first. Their tapioca balls are amazing.”

“Why would you put tapioca pudding in _tea_?” Arthur asked as he gave the cup a dubious look.

I burst out laughing. “The balls at the bottom are tapioca, not the tea!” I explained as I pushed the drink into Arthur’s hand.

Giving in to my prodding, Arthur took a hesitant sip. I could tell from his expression as he chewed the balls that he wasn’t a fan. “It’s interesting,” he said diplomatically.

“I guess it’s an acquired taste,” I replied. I took back my boba and enjoyed a long slurp of the creamy deliciousness. Watching Arthur remove my manuscript from his messenger bag, I felt a stir of apprehension as I noticed his numerous markings in red ink. I knew that Arthur was polite, but he wasn’t one to mince words if he thought a story wasn’t worth his time. It was the moment of truth, and as eager as I was for Arthur’s comments, I was also nervous that he might rip my story to shreds. I took a deep breath. “So… what did you think?”

“It wasn’t at all what I expected,” Arthur began slowly. He met my gaze with a thoughtful look and I was reminded of all the times that Arthur had praised a story’s possibilities while critiquing its execution. “That was your intent, wasn’t it? To challenge assumptions and show a part of history that many people probably had never thought about. When you talked about brothers, I never imagined that they would be slaves fighting over which side offered them the best chance of freedom.”

I smiled and nodded. “Yeah. I did my honors thesis on black slaves and freemen and their reasons for fighting on both sides of the Revolution.”

“I’m not surprised,” Arthur confessed as he pushed the manuscript to my side of the table. “I’ve marked the portions that sound a bit too much like a textbook. I understand your impulse to fit in as many historical tidbits as you can, but remember that it’s a story about people. You have to trust your readers will connect with history when they connect with your characters.”

“Did you?” I asked. “Connect with them, I mean.”

“At first they seemed a bit clichéd—the young idealist versus the older pragmatist. But when they started fighting and seeing the world for themselves, I think you did a good job fleshing out their motivations.” Arthur collected his thoughts for a moment and I waited patiently for him to continue, eager to hear his suggestions. “The moment they met on the battlefield was quite moving. They both wanted the same thing, and yet it had torn their family apart. I think you made a smart decision—having one brother side with the Patriots whilst the other chose the Loyalists. It was much more nuanced than I was expecting.”

I grinned. “You thought I was gonna spend the whole time pissing on the British?”

“Perhaps,” Arthur acknowledged with a lopsided smile.

I shook my head sadly. As much as I loved my country, as a historian, I also had to acknowledge its many flaws. “No—when it comes to the way they treated slaves, the British Army and the Continental Army were about the same. They offered freedom to those who would fight for them, but a lot of black soldiers on both sides still ended up in chains when it was all over.”

Arthur nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of his matcha latte. “I can see why you wrote this story. It clearly means a lot to you.”

“It’s about the most American thing I can think of,” I explained. “I mean, taxation without representation is pretty bad, but that’s just a political slogan. These guys were literally fighting for their freedom.”

“It’s good to challenge the hypocrisy, but I think you might want to be more careful not to force the characters to speak with your voice. I have a number of suggestions for making the dialogue sound more natural.”

I flipped through Arthur’s comments and we discussed his ideas for strengthening the characterization and the dialogue. He freely admitted that he had no idea how people spoke in the 1700s, but I had read enough primary literature to have a pretty good idea. I changed a few places here and there to make it easier to understand for a modern ear.

“Of course, that brings me to my last comment,” Arthur said as we reached the end. “I think your conclusion is far too happy for the subject matter. Having them find each other again and claim the farmland left behind from their loyalist owner seems too pat an ending. In reality, people rarely get everything they want.”

“I know.” I sighed. “I just… after everything I put them through, I just want them to be happy.”

“Yes, but choices have consequences. They each chose freedom over family and I think that’s how it has to end.” He gave me a somber look. “Come now, you don’t want to end it like the Harry Potter books. Lovely story, but such a saccharine ending.”

“You know me, I love everything sugary.” I laughed and held up what was left of my boba. Still, I made a note in my manuscript to consider having the older brother join the black Loyalists in Nova Scotia. I wasn’t going to make him one of the slaves that was kept in bondage after the war in the West Indies, but separating the two would make it a bittersweet ending. “Thanks, Arthur. I really appreciate you taking the time to do this.”

“It was the least I could do to thank you for accepting me for this internship,” he replied. “I was stocking shelves and now I’m moving up in the industry.”

“Totally!” I agreed, assuming that Roderich had hinted to Arthur about the likely job offer. He certainly seemed optimistic about his career. When we finished our teas, I insisted on taking Arthur on a tour of the UC Berkeley campus, and he was in a good enough mood to accept.

Even in November, the campus was still green and lovely, one of the many advantages of living in California. We walked side by side along the paved campus walkways. I showed Arthur the oldest building on campus, South Hall, and made sure to point out the tiny stone bear carved into a circular opening on the stone balcony railing.

“Oh my, he certainly looks comfortable!” Arthur said with a smile. He tried to take a picture with his phone, but it was too far away for a good shot.

“Yeah, they’ve got bear sculptures all over the place since the golden bear is kind of their mascot.” I looked up at the clocktower, eyeing the massive bells perched near the top. “It’s not as beautiful as Stanford, but it’s still pretty,” I admitted.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were supposed to hate this school?”

“I know. It’s just kinda hard to completely hate it when I grew up here. And it was a pretty damn good place to grow up. Berkeley has gotta be one of the most LGBT-friendly places in the world.” I thought I heard Arthur make a brief choking sound, but when I turned around to look at him, he had recovered and was staring off in a different direction. Deciding it was nothing, I continued the tour. I pointed to the stone clock tower in front of us. “And that’s Sather Tower. They call it the Campanile, don’t ask me why.”

“Probably because ‘campanile’ means bell tower.” Arthur smirked. “I guess they don’t teach you _everything_ at Stanford.”

“It’s not as nice as Hoover Tower,” I insisted, defending my alma mater against Arthur’s teasing. “I mean, yes, our tower is filled with conservative assholes, but it looks really cool.”

“Well, which one is taller?” Arthur asked.

I didn’t want to admit that Berkeley had the taller tower. “Bigger isn’t always better,” I replied, blushing slightly as I realized how phallic our conversation sounded.

“It is when you’re at the top,” Arthur replied.

It took me a moment to realize that he meant the top of the tower. “Wanna go up to see the observation deck?” I asked, leading him inside as he tried to mask his excitement. We paid a few bucks each and rode the elevator to the tower’s observation deck.

The view from the top was amazing, as always. The campus lay spread out below us and in the distance we could see the Golden Gate Bridge and the San Francisco skyline. “Ooh, look! I can see my house from here!” I cried, eagerly pointing it out for Arthur.

He gave me an indulgent smile and sighed happily as he admired the vista. “The view from up here is truly breathtaking.”

As we visited the other sides of the observation deck, I realized that this was my chance. Arthur was in a good mood and it seemed that his London trip had resolved his earlier anxiety. It was almost the same warm, relaxed feeling we had enjoyed on our earlier outings. Eager to test the waters a little further, I hoped that this would be the perfect chance to ask him on a real date. Arthur turned to give me a smile, with the wind whipping through his hair, and I made up my mind then and there. I was a brave Gryffindor, I could do it!

“Yeah it’s gorgeous. Almost as nice as the view I used to get from my desk every morning,” I babbled, trying to sound cool and mellow, but feeling like I was failing, badly.

“Did you used to work in an office with a waterfront view?” Arthur asked innocently, not comprehending, and I nervously rubbed at my elbow.

“Not exactly,” I admitted, finding it pretty hard to keep eye contact with him. “I was actually talking about you.”

Arthur’s eyes widened in surprise and his smile vanished. He looked like a man who had just walked into his kitchen and been propositioned by his toaster. “P-Pardon?” he stuttered, looking uneasy.

I winced. “Crap. I’m an idiot and you’re straight.” I kicked myself for assuming that a guy was gay just because he dressed snappily and liked cats and gardening and knitting. I could feel the regret start to build within me and quickly tried to backtrack. “Sorry for making things awkward.”

“That’s quite alright,” Arthur finally relented, though his expression was still a little lost and confused. He certainly didn’t sound ‘quite alright.’ “I just… need a bit of time to process this.”

We rode back down the elevator in the most tense and awkward silence of my life. Arthur left for the BART station on his own and I watched him go with a gut-wrenching mix of guilt and remorse. He disappeared down the BART escalator and with him went any hope of salvaging the warm and friendly relationship we used to have. I fisted my hand, and my fingernails dug deep red crescent marks into my palm.

“Fuck,” I muttered to myself.

* * *

A week passed in which Arthur and I, not so discreetly, danced around each other at the office. When I caught Arthur moving his small box of personal belongings into his new shared office, he looked away, and every time since then when I would pop into Elizabeta’s office with a question or inquiry, Arthur would bury his nose in his notes. Liz, for her part, though she clearly noticed our odd behavior, didn’t comment on it.

Not wanting to make it obvious that I was avoiding Arthur, I spent most of the week cocooned in my office with the door shut. The other employees seemed to get the message that I wanted to be left alone. No one asked me to join them for lunch, nor did anyone swing by to chat about the weather or how the Raiders did on Monday. As much as I was relieved not to have to answer any questions, it was also lonely spending so much time alone with my thoughts, double-guessing every moment I had ever spent with Arthur.

So I was definitely surprised when I got a phone call, bright and early Friday morning. I scrambled for the landline on my desk, with my coat still halfway on.

“Hello?” I half questioned and half greeted, pressing the receiver to my ear. Who could be calling me so early? Usually my authors didn’t phone until at least 10 AM, and Bella in particular was notorious for calling me just as I get ready to leave the office.

“Is this Mr. Jones from Golden Gateway Publishing?” an unfamiliar and surprisingly British voice inquired from the other end. At least we were getting the easy questions out of the way first.

“Yes. Alfred Jones, speaking.”

“My name is Veronica. I work for Pendleton Books.”

“Pendleton?” I asked, “As in the British publishing house?” Why on earth were they calling me? Had Golden Gateway agreed to some kind of merger? I knew I’d been distracted at the last management meeting but I didn’t think I’d been _that_ distracted.

“Yes,” she replied, continuing along, unaware of my inner confusion. “Arthur Kirkland is seeking a position as one of our intermediary editors and he’s listed you as a reference on his job application. Would you be willing to answer a few questions about your experience working with him?” the caller wanted to know.

I felt a moment of shock. When had Arthur applied for a new job? My mouth went dry as the gears slowly started to turn. The trip to London… had that been something more than a family visit?

I tried to regain my composure, as the woman on the other end of the line waited patiently. Why did Arthur want to leave us? He’d seemed to be enjoying himself and his work, and I was sure that he’d wait it out until we offered him a full time position. But the more I thought about, the less I really knew. Maybe it was just me who was so confident that Arthur would stay, and maybe that was just because I couldn’t bear to see him go.  

The thought of giving Arthur a bad review to tank his chances briefly crossed my mind, but I immediately rejected it. After all the hard work Arthur had done for us, he deserved better. “Yes, of course,” I recovered, faking a cheerful tone even as I felt my heart sink.

“How long have you worked with Mr. Kirkland?”

“About two months, as his supervisor. I’ve also worked beside him as a colleague for about a month now,” I replied as I sat down.

“I see,” the British voice responded, and I could hear the sound of tick marks as she likely noted that information down on a piece of paper. “During your time working with him, how would you rate his performance?”

I smiled half-heartedly to myself, remembering our great times together. “Arthur’s a fantastic employee. Always shows up fifteen minutes early, takes work home with him. He puts in a lot of extra time to read through our backlog of submitted manuscripts and he’s found some real diamonds in the rough. And that’s of course, all in addition to him being a great editor. He’s had experience with at least three genres and has done a great job in each one.”

“I take it you would recommend him highly?” the caller asked.

“I would,” I replied softly, subconsciously clutching at my knee, causing my pants to wrinkle.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Jones.”

“You’re welcome.” As I hung up the phone, I stared blankly at the wall.

‘Well,’ I thought to myself. ‘Now you’ve done it. He’s as good as gone.’ But as I closed my eyes, I wondered if that was really true. I might have botched my attempt at a personal relationship with Arthur, but there was no way I would let my personal fumbles harm the company by depriving us of a star editor. Feeling a rush of determination, I opened my eyes and picked up the phone again. It was time for an emergency senior editors’ meeting. I sure as hell wasn’t letting Arthur go without a fight.


	9. Chapter 9

“Crème de la crème boulangerie, comment puis-je vous aider?”

“I don’t suppose you deliver to California,” I said, closing my eyes and leaning back against a rather uncomfortable throw pillow my mother had insisted I take with me when I moved. “Because I could go for about 30 of those little puff pastry logs you make with the whipped cream and fresh strawberries.”

I could hear Francis shift the telephone around as well as some muffled French in the background. Then a moment later:

“Arthur what time is it there?”

I blinked bleary eyes open and held my phone far enough from my face that the tiny white numbers came into focus. I had to squint a bit to see them. Perhaps it was time to look into some spectacles.

“Half past one,” I replied, trying to get comfortable once more but that dastardly pillow had already given me a crick in my neck.

On the other end of the line I heard more shuffling and some murmured French followed by Francis speaking to one of his subordinates just a tad bit louder: “Angélique, assistes des clients, s’il te plait. Je m'occupe de quelque chose.” Then in French clearly meant for me, “Un moment, s’il vous plait.”

The sounds of the bakery—ruffled paper bags amongst friendly chit-chat and clinking dishes—faded into the background. For a moment I thought I heard the steady grind of an espresso machine but I couldn’t for the life of me remember Francis having one the last time I was there. Perhaps he’d upgraded since then. I needed to ask him about that sometime.

Then there was the sound of a door shutting and the cacophony of bakery noises ceased. All that came through the receiver after that point was very accented but fluent English.

“What are you doing up at half past one?” Francis asked somewhat concerned. “I thought you dropped that since college. Do you not now retire after your afternoon viewing of Countdown?”

“Oh very funny,” I replied, though I mentally made a note never to mention to Francis that I’d gotten rather hooked on American game shows else I’d never hear the end of it.

I shifted on the couch, and brought my mug of tea closer to myself, taking a moment to consider how to proceed.

“Francis, what would you say if I told you I’d somehow, unintentionally, become...” how should I phrase it? “...the object of my boss’s affection?”

“You’re going to have to elaborate, mon lapin. Do not leave me hanging.”

With a sigh I settled back into the couch cushions and began retelling the story that had been replaying in my head for the past week. It was nearly twenty minutes before I even got to the climax. By that point, I had finished my tea and moved into the kitchen to clean the dishes.

“After some awful jokes at Berkeley's expense he invited me to the top of the clock tower. That sounded rather nice so I agreed and we rode the lift to the observation deck. And then... once we were at the peak and I was mesmerized by the view...”

I ground to a halt, but it wasn’t long before Francis goaded me into continuing.

“Go on…”

I sighed once more before I continued. “When we were at the top… with the lovely vista laid out before us, he turned to me and said while it was certainly a gorgeous view from up there, it paled in comparison to the one from across his desk where I used to sit,” I said, recapping last Saturday’s events.

On the other end of the line, Francis scoffed. “Americans. They think cheesy pick-up lines are a substitute for romance.”

“Need I remind you that you’ve used your fair share of pick-up lines,” I chided as I tucked my phone beneath my ear and finished washing my teapot.

“Yes, but the lines are better in French. So… what did _you_ say?”

“Nothing,” I admitted. “I was too surprised.”

“Surprised? I doubt that anyone else was.” I could practically see the I-told-you-so smirk on his face. “You are utterly hopeless at romance, you know.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, well, if I were _good_ at it, I wouldn’t be calling you for advice, now would I?” Shifting the sudsy teapot to the other hand, I reached for a small, flexible brush.

Francis laughed. “Touché. Still, I would have thought even you would have noticed his level of flirting. He bought you flowers!”

“A housewarming gift,” I replied defensively. I wiggled the brush into the spout, attacking the stains with extra vigor as I took out my confusion on the poor dishes.

“He took you on dates around the city.”

“He was being nice and showing the new intern around,” I insisted, but the more I thought about it, the less certain I was. Perhaps I could pass off the aquarium as a work-related visit, but the ice cream shop afterward had been anything but. Alfred had even shared his ice cream with me! People didn’t normally share ice cream with their supervisors, did they?

Okay, I admitted to myself, in hindsight I really shouldn’t have been so surprised when Alfred’s flirting grew more blatant. I just wished I had managed a better response to his corny one-liner. Instead, we were stuck awkwardly dancing around each other in the office as we both avoided an issue that neither of us knew how to talk about.

“So… do you need my help filing a sexual harassment lawsuit?” Francis asked, jumping to the wrong conclusion as my silence dragged on.

“It’s not like that,” I reassured him. “Alfred wouldn’t want to make me uncomfortable. He dropped it as soon as he saw my surprise. I just… I told him I needed time.”

“Ah, the classic response of stuffy English reticence. Here’s my advice: no one likes to kiss a stiff upper lip.”

I frowned, annoyed at Francis for baiting me and even more irritated with myself for wanting his romantic guidance enough to put up with it. “Are you planning to help, or do you just intend to mock me?”

“It’s not my fault that you are so easily riled, Arthur,” he teased. “But of course I intend to help! Do you want my advice on how to woo him, or to let him down gently?”

I set the teapot in the drying rack and reached for the closest towel. I pondered his question while staring into the fog outside my kitchen window. “I’m not sure,” I finally admitted.

“Then let’s take this one step at a time, shall we? Is he handsome?”

“Why is _that_ your first question?”

“Just answer it, Arthur.”

I turned away from the window, leaning against the counter and folding my arms. “Well… yes.” I tried not to think about my supervisor that way, but I wasn’t blind. Alfred had a great body and a charming smile. Walking up and down the hills of San Francisco had clearly done him and his leg muscles a lot of good.

“And do you like talking to him?”

“I did… when we used to talk.” We had chatted so much when we worked together. Even though Roderich and Elizabeta were more professional, I missed my easy companionship with Alfred.

“So would you date him if he hadn’t started out as your supervisor?”

I walked over to my small breakfast nook and sat down on the bench in the bay window. Fog curled around the row houses across the street as I weighed the pros and cons of dating Alfred. He was handsome and sweet and I _was_ interested, but I had no idea how it would work in the office. Other than the employment issues, I was finding it hard to come up with any negatives—somehow his faults had become endearing. Even—dare I admit it—his cheesy puns. “You know, I probably would.”

“So why not give it a try? Get to know him.”

I sighed. “It’s more complicated than that. What if things go wrong and I’m stuck in an awkward work environment?”

“More awkward than it is now?” Francis asked pointedly. I ignored him.

“There’s also my application to Pendleton. I could be moving to London soon!”

“How soon?”

“They said they’d call my references and give me an answer by the end of the month.”

“Hmm. Hopefully they don’t call your current job.”

I scoffed. “Of course not. I listed my supervisors from my days back in Manchester.”

“You didn’t mention your current internship at all?” he asked in surprise.

“Just on my CV.”

“Well, I’m sure they won’t think to use the internet to find the contact number for your current supervisor,” Francis reassured me sarcastically. “And whose name will they find if they search for the internship posting?”

My stomach sank. They would find exactly what I had found that fateful day I let a publishing internship take me halfway across the world. “Alfred’s.”

“Ah, so they will call a reference who didn’t know you applied and who has an ulterior motive to keep you in San Francisco. I’m sure that will work out well.”

“Alfred wouldn’t do that,” I insisted, yet a dark voice inside my head whispered otherwise. Even if he wasn’t upset about my romantic rejection, surely he would be annoyed that I had applied to another job only a few months into my current internship without so much as consulting him.

“You would know better than I,” Francis replied. “In that case, you should invite him on a date.”

“Why?”

“To see if you like him enough to stay. Maybe everything will work out better than you expected. And if it doesn’t, you already have your exit strategy planned!”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Making romance sound easy is what I do best,” Francis replied cheerfully.

Despite my natural pessimism, I found myself buoyed by his hopeful advice. We chatted for a few more minutes about his recent travels, but I paid barely any attention to our conversation. Monday was too soon and yet too far away. In the meantime, I could only pray that I hadn’t botched both my employment and my romantic prospects.

* * *

When Monday finally rolled around, I stopped by one of the many local coffee shops on my walk from the BART and purchased one cup of tea and one caramel latte. It seemed precisely what Alfred would like—strong, sweet, and overly caffeinated.

As I entered the office and rounded the corner, I heard two voices arguing by the kitchenette.

“A dozen donuts don’t just _disappear_ ,” Elizabeta complained, putting her hands on her hips.

“They could,” Gilbert replied with a grin. “Remember the manuscript that Russian submitted about giant, killer donuts? In Soviet Russia, donuts eat you!”

“You’re saying a horror story ate my donuts?”

“Yep.”

“Gilbert, this is your worst excuse yet.” Elizabeta sighed and rolled her eyes, catching sight of me as she turned to walk away from our donut-devouring secretary. Her expression immediately brightened. “Oh, Arthur! I’ve left some new manuscripts on your desk. I have a meeting, but we’ll chat later, okay?”

“Of course,” I replied, pleased that she was distracted enough by the donut theft and her meeting to not notice the _two_ coffee cups I held in my hands. Elizabeta read romance into the smallest of actions and I didn’t want to deal with her knowing looks for the rest of the day. She hurried off to get her notes for the meeting while I continued down the hallway to Alfred’s office. His door was closed, surprising me enough that I stood there for a few moments, tea in one hand and coffee in the other. Was Alfred busy? Was it worth disturbing him? I didn’t want his coffee to get cold, but I also didn’t want to bother him if he had something important going on.

Deciding it was better to err on the side of caution, I turned to leave. Fate however, was clearly not on my side that morning as I pivoted away from the door… and rammed straight into Alfred, who was striding toward his office while checking his phone. My hand bumped into his shirt and hot tea splashed onto both of us.

“Whoa!” Alfred cried. He blinked at me in surprise. “Arthur? What are—”

“Your tie! I’m so sorry,” I hastily apologized for the brown liquid coating his brightly colored neckwear. So much for my plans to make a good impression with coffee.

“Hey, don’t worry about the tie. I get stuff on it all the time.” He glanced down at the tie and noticed it wasn’t the only spill. “Your hand!” he exclaimed upon noting that the remnants of my Early Grey was dribbling down my palm. “Hold on a sec,” Alfred ordered before he ducked into his office and grabbed a few napkins from one of the fast food bags on his desk. He reached out and started gently dabbing my hand with the napkins. After a second he paused and awkwardly handed me the napkins. “Or maybe you want to…”

“Thank you,” I replied as I took the napkins and finished drying off my hand. “Do you have a moment?”

“Uh, of course.” Alfred gestured for me to come in. I sat down at ‘my’ side of the desk and placed what was left of the tea in front of me. Reaching over the piles of disorganized manuscripts, I offered the caramel latte to Alfred once he had finished taking off his stained tie. He accepted the cup with a look of surprise, quirking his lips upward in the closest thing to a smile I had seen from him since our visit to Berkeley. “What’s this for?”

“A thank you for all the cups you brought me.” Yet another clue I had so foolishly missed. In an internship it wasn’t normally the _supervisor_ who bought the coffee.

“It wasn’t anything… I mean, it was just appreciation for all the work you did.” Alfred rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “And it was nice to see you smile.”

I took a quick sip of tea to hide my flustered expression. I couldn’t imagine that my smile was worth a cup of tea per day. Even though he had delivered the comment offhandedly, those words meant far more than his pick-up line on the observation deck.

“So what’d you want to talk about?” Alfred asked as the silence dragged on.

I set my cup back on the desk and rested my hands in my lap. Where to begin?

“Last month,” I started uncertainly, “when you transferred me to a new supervisor, I thought you were unhappy with my work…”

Alfred gaped. “What? No, of course not!”

“Yes, I think I know why you did it now,” I replied wryly. “But I… well, after what happened with the magazine, I started looking around for other jobs, just in case.”

“Oh.” He blinked as a look of understanding crossed his face. “You’re saying I shouldn’t be surprised to hear from other employers interested in you.”

I nodded. Alfred had caught on quickly, but I didn’t want to disclose any more details lest he think I lacked commitment to my current internship. It was even possible Pendleton would never bother contacting him if they were satisfied with the recommendations of my previous supervisors.

“Well, thanks for letting me know and for bribing me for a good recommendation,” he said with a smile, as he raised his cup. “At this point I think I should transfer them to Rod or Liz. Do you want me to let them know that someone might be calling, or are you going to tell them yourself?”

“You can tell them,” I replied, relieved that I wouldn’t be forced to have two more awkward conversations about my recent job hunt. “And the coffee isn’t a bribe.”

“No?”

I flushed slightly, embarrassed at what I was about to do, but still convinced that it was the best way to ease the awkwardness between us. I shook my head. “No. It’s because I’ve been thinking about you _a latte_.”

Alfred blinked twice. “Did you just…?” He grinned and then burst out laughing. Leaning forward, he slapped the table and nearly knocked his stack of manuscripts onto the floor. After far more laughter than my pitiful pun deserved, he wiped the tears from his eyes and grinned. “Wow.”

“It wasn’t that good.”

“I know. I just didn’t think you’d ever use a coffee pick-up line on me. Or any pick-up line.” He gave me a puzzled look. “I thought you were straight?”

“I don’t know why.”

Alfred tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy. “But you…”

“I never said I wasn’t _interested_ , I just said I needed time to think about it.” I gripped my left arm with my right hand, a gesture I tended to rely on when flustered.

“What’s there to think about?” he asked, looking a little more hopeful.

“How us dating would work, for starters. Especially _at_ work.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got that covered,” Alfred said earnestly, leaning forward onto his desk and nearly tipping over his coffee cup. “Rod and Liz are in charge of your assignments and any employment decisions. They’ve already got something in mind, but you’ll find out about _that_ soon enough.”

My stomach tightened. “Should I be worried?”

“No, no, it’s a good surprise!”

“Oh.” I frowned, never one for surprises. I hoped it wasn’t another sudden transfer. Was I to be sent with Kiku on his next travelogue adventure? Actually, that sounded rather enjoyable.

“So does that mean you want to go on a date? An _official_ date?” Alfred asked perhaps a little too eagerly.

“Let’s just say I think there’s something brewing between us and I’d like a chance to figure out what it is,” I replied.

“Wow.” He grinned and laughed again. “Coffee, puns, _and_ a date. This is the best I’ve ever felt on a Monday morning! You could say… my cup runneth over.” He winked.

Seeing the pure joy in his smile, I suddenly understood why Alfred had kept bringing me a cup of tea each morning. Not willing to admit I had actually enjoyed his puns, I made him an offer: “If you promise me no more puns, I’ll bring you coffee for the rest of the week.”

Alfred chuckled. “Figures you’d offer during a three-day week.”

“What?”

“We’ve got Thursday and Friday off for Thanksgiving.”

I turned and glanced at the calendar pinned to the wall behind Alfred’s desk. It was hard to believe it was nearly the end of November. “Oh, I’d forgotten.”

“You don’t have plans for Thanksgiving?” he asked, somewhat horrified. “You can’t spend Thanksgiving alone!”

I shrugged. “It’s just another day.”

“No, no. It’s the best holiday! It’s all the food of Christmas without the pressure of getting gifts.” His face settled into a thoughtful expression. “So, I know this isn’t a typical date, but I’m having Friendsgiving with some friends at Stanford and you’re welcome to come. We can do something more date-like afterward.”

“You’re inviting me to Friendsgiving as a date?” I smiled. We seemed to be going about this dating business all wrong. “I’d love to.”

* * *

 

The hallways were thankfully empty and I returned to Elizabeta’s office to find her still gone. As she had promised, there were several new manuscripts piled on my desk.

I plucked one off the top and started reading. I wasn’t surprised to find that it featured two male neighbors and their quirky, flirtatious relationship. Elizabeta reveled in giving me the LGBT romances, but I didn’t mind. _Someone_ had to make sure that the male leads written by female authors didn’t sound too feminine.

As I read along, I jotted down my comments on the margins of the script. The story was light and heartwarming, just what the morning called for. It even turned out to be a work romance, though it took the two neighbors until chapter five to realize that they were both professors at the same university. Lucky them, I thought to myself. They avoided the whole mess of courting a coworker and jumped straight to the steady dating stage. I sighed and dropped my head to the desk, wishing everything could be much simpler.

“Taking a nap?” Gilbert asked, startling me out of my woolgathering as he stepped into the office. I looked up and saw him set a box onto Liz’s desk. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. I nod off too sometimes,” the secretary admitted with a cheeky grin. “Usually I crawl under the desk though. Less noticeable that way.”

I found it hard to imagine that a person sleeping under their desk could be unobtrusive, but that was just a distraction from the real issue. “So you did steal the donuts,” I said, nodding my head toward the suspiciously shaped box.

“Not me!” he protested. “Gilbird just wanted a little snack.”

“Another reason why you shouldn’t keep a bird at the office.”

“Look, I won’t tell her about your nap if you don’t mention the donuts,” he offered.

“I wasn’t napping,” I retorted, but Gilbert ignored me and made his escape before Elizabeta could catch him red-handed with the box. I rolled my eyes. The staid reliability of Pendleton suddenly seemed all the more appealing.

A few minutes later Elizabeta strolled into her office wearing a pleased smile.

“Good meeting?” I asked.

“Good news about the budget,” she explained. “I think we have room for more staffing.”

“That’s great,” I replied, thinking about the piles of unread manuscripts sitting forlorn in the mail room. “Which division?”

“Horror’s been popular lately, so probably another permanent position there. We tend to move people around when necessary, but it’s hard to staff horror because we can’t give any of it to Alfred. We learned _that_ lesson early.”

I tilted my head to the side, sending her a questioning look. “Why not?”

“He’s the biggest scaredy-cat you’ll ever meet. You should take him to a horror film some time and see what happens.” She tapped her chin as a huge smile spread across her face. “Although you might want to bring some adult diapers just in case.”

“I see,” I replied, more amused by the idea than I cared to admit. “So you’re looking for someone new?”

“No.” Her smile widened. “We were thinking of you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, we always try to find permanent positions for our interns, if budget allows.”

“That’s very generous…” I managed to reply, even as I panicked and wondered if she wanted a response right away.

“I’m afraid I don’t have specifics yet. It was only a preliminary budget, but I wanted to let you know in case something else popped up. I understand there might be other factors to consider.” She winked and I immediately spotted one advantage of going back to work for Roderich. He wasn’t going to be quite so interested in my personal life.

I nodded. One way or another, I would have to make my decision soon.

Elizabeta sat down at her desk and spotted the donut box, saving me from any further questions. Her mouth tightened into a small line, then relaxed into a smile as she opened the box. She laughed and showed me the note that was inside.

‘ _I’m sorry my bird ate your donuts_ ,’ was scribbled upon a torn piece of notebook paper. Beneath it was a box of pumpkin spice filled Ghirardelli chocolate squares. Elizabeta unwrapped one and popped it into her mouth. “Gilbert might not be the best employee, but he _does_ have good taste in chocolates.”

As she sorted through the papers on her desk, I returned to the manuscript I had been reading earlier. The romance developed slowly and naturally as the two neighbors began to spend more time together. I particularly enjoyed the extended metaphor comparing one character’s rose garden to budding love, although I was forced to note that roses weren’t known for blooming in October. Perhaps in a warmer spot like San Francisco, but not in a New England college town.

My mind drifted to the Berkeley Rose Garden Alfred had mentioned in one of our earlier chats. If he wasn’t such a talented editor, he would have made a wonderful tour guide. I smiled to myself and eagerly returned to the novel at hand.

* * *

 

After several days spent pondering my impending decision, the holiday break came as a much needed relief. Alfred seemed determined to match the light cheerfulness of our earlier trips and I found myself settling back into that groove without any problems. It helped that the foggy skies of San Francisco cleared as we moved further south.

By the time we reached Stanford’s campus in Palo Alto, it had turned into a beautiful fall day.

“Isn’t Stanford gorgeous?” Alfred bragged as we approached the center of campus on a palm-lined boulevard. The main quad greeted us in the distance, its tan adobe walls and red-clay rooftop creating a bold color contrast with the bright blue sky. A beautiful church stood in the center of the quad.

“It’s lovely,” I agreed. “How does anyone manage to go to class?”

“We don’t. We just played Frisbee all the time.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. You went to class and you did the reading. You might look like a jock, but I know a nerd when I see one.”

“Guilty,” he said with a laugh. “It was the nice thing about going here. We’re all nerds together.”

“It’s so quiet,” I noticed as we drove into the more residential areas of campus. I saw a few students going past on bicycles, but the campus was mostly empty.

“Yeah. They get a whole week for Thanksgiving break, so a lot of kids go home.” We pulled into a parking space near a residential complex and he gestured towards the cars. “Not so much the grad students, though, especially the international ones.”

“That makes sense. No point in going home if they don’t even celebrate it,” I agreed. I shut the car door behind me and followed Alfred down a stone path and up an outdoor staircase to one of the apartments in the middle of the complex. As we walked, Alfred explained that his former roommate had stayed on for grad school and now lived with his boyfriend and two other international graduate students. He knocked and the door opened to reveal a tiny apartment overflowing with the decadent aroma of cooking food.

A young man with chin-length brown hair hugged Alfred as soon as he walked into the apartment. It was a warm, tight hug and I felt an unexpected twinge of jealousy. They looked close, a fact that the other man confirmed when he introduced himself as Alfred’s former college roommate, Toris. He welcomed me into the apartment with a gentle, easy-going manner and took me along to meet the others.

We started in the kitchen with a blond man who was busy cooking dinner in a frilly pink apron. “Feliks, this is Alfred’s date, Arthur,” Toris said over the sound of boiling pots.

I flushed. Of course Alfred had needed to describe his plus one to his friends somehow, but I still wasn't used to being called his date. “The food looks great,” I said weakly.

“Thanks! I hope you like Tofurkey,” Feliks replied before returning to his pots and pans.

“What’s that?” I whispered to Alfred.

“What it sounds like. A turkey made of tofu.”

“Are you _sure_ this isn’t Berkeley?” I teased.

As we stepped into the living room, the first thing that struck me was the excess of technology. A futon faced a giant television, which resembled an octopus with cables spreading out in all directions to various gaming devices. Between the beautiful weather outside and the plethora of entertainment options inside, I wondered how any of the graduate students managed to get their work done. It was only after I’d taken in the technical grandeur that I realized one of Alfred’s friends was waving at us while simultaneously fiddling with the apartment’s sound system. We collectively took a few steps toward him.

“Eduard, this is Arthur,” Toris said by way of introduction.

I lifted my hand to greet him, but slowly lowered it as Eduard didn’t look up from his work. Trying to ignore the awkwardness of my failed gesture, I pursued another tactic.

“So what do you study?” I asked Eduard as he rearranged some wires and the sound of gentle instrumental music filled the room.

“CS.”

“Computer science,” Alfred translated. “Basically, if you ever have a tech problem, Eduard’s your guy.”

“I think you do a good job handling our tech problems,” I replied, earning a pleased smile from Alfred. “So are you working on a start-up?” I asked Eduard, since that was the extent of my computer knowledge.

He shook his head. “No, I'm more interested in improving internet access.”

“Like faster speeds?” I asked.

“No, more like finding ways to do everything online.”

Alfred smirked. “ _Everything_?”

I swatted him on the shoulder while Eduard grew more animated in discussing his passion. “Shopping, voting, banking. What’s the point of coding interesting sites if no one can visit them? Information wants to be free!”

“I hope there’s still room for old fashioned books in your brave new world,” I replied.

Toris glanced at Alfred. “You know, that’s what Al always says.”

“Because it’s true! You can’t DDOS a paperback.”

“You also can’t share a paper book instantaneously with thousands of people around the world,” Eduard replied.

“Sharing isn’t actually helpful for our pricing model,” I interjected.

“I know. I have some thoughts about that too,” Eduard said before launching into a discussion of creative digital rights and pay-what-you-want price structures. “With low marginal costs and no middleman, anyone could become a writer.”

“Some people would share stories for free for the sheer joy of writing,” I replied. “But I think you’d be left with a lot of writers who couldn’t afford to leave their jobs.”

“Not if you develop the system right,” Eduard said earnestly, his eyes shining with enthusiasm for academic intellectual discourse. “I think technology gives more than it takes. Just look at spell checking and how it’s made the process more efficient!”

I smiled. “Spell checking is a marvelous invention, but it will never eliminate the need for a human editor. Not as long as homophones exist.”

Alfred nodded. “Plus, a computer doesn’t know how to make puns. And where would we be without puns?” he asked rhetorically.

Eduard and I shared a look. “Point one for the machines,” I conceded, while Eduard grinned. It seemed I wasn’t the only one to be wounded with ammo from Alfred’s pun arsenal.

The next—and final—stop on my apartment tour was the small dining nook next to the kitchen. It contained a table, six mismatched chairs, and a bookcase with the most impressive collection of board games I had ever seen.

“And this here is Raivis,” Toris said as a short young man with a shy smile joined us at the dining room table. He didn't look old enough to be a grad student. He also seemed the quietest of the bunch, though he opened up when I asked him about some of the various strategy games I’d eyed on the shelf behind him.

Seeing my interest, he selected one of the simpler games and we played as we waited for Feliks to finish cooking dinner. The rules were relatively simple. The board consisted of a variety of colored tiles in the shape of an island. We chose our initial settlements, then each rolled for resources, and competed to build settlements, roads, and cities.

Since I was the newbie, Alfred and the others mostly focused their competition on each other, which proved to be their undoing. After several lucky rolls, I glanced down at my resource cards and found the game stirring up my intensely competitive streak.

“Does anyone have wood?” I asked innocently.

Alfred snickered. I ignored him and traded my valuable ore for a variety of different resources from Toris and Raivis. I even traded with Alfred once he stopped laughing. Once I had finished trading and built a new settlement, I smirked and flipped over a monopoly card. I used it to reclaim all of the ore I had traded with the other players. It was enough to build a city and pushed me over the point total to victory.

“That wasn’t hard,” I said, grinning at Alfred’s gobsmacked expression.

“Clear the table, dinner is ready!” Feliks called. Any bad feelings were soon forgotten as we packed away the game and made room for the tofurkey at the center of the dining table. In addition to the vegetarian turkey, Feliks had made many traditional Thanksgiving foods—mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potato casserole, macaroni and cheese, crescent rolls, and roasted brussels sprouts. I inhaled deeply. It all smelled divine.

There wasn’t enough room for the dishes at the table, so we served ourselves one by one in the kitchen and returned to the dining table with our plates heaped with food. I waited expectantly, wondering if anyone wanted to say grace.

“We should each say something we’re thankful for,” Feliks proposed as he sliced the tofurkey. “I’m totally grateful for Toris… and also tomorrow’s shopping deals.”

Toris blushed. “I’m grateful for this lovely dinner. Thank you, Feli.”

“I’m grateful for my T1 line,” Eduard said.

Feliks rolled his eyes. “No tofu for you until you come up with something better.”

“But it gives me access to everything.”

“Then pick one of _those_ things,” Feliks replied.

“There are so many to choose from,” Eduard murmured to himself. He glanced down at his plate and frowned in thought.

“Gmail… youtube… cat videos?” Alfred suggested as he faced the prospect of his food cooling down while Eduard dithered over his choice. “Wikipedia?”

“Yes, Wikipedia!” Eduard agreed with the gratitude of a student saved from a pop quiz. “I'm grateful for people sharing their knowledge. I don't know where I'd be without it. “

“Probably at the library,” I suggested wryly.

“I'm grateful for Arthur's dry wit,” Alfred said with a smile.

“I’m grateful for good friends who like board games,” Raivis added.

They turned to look at me. “New opportunities,” I said as I caught Alfred’s glance. He beamed at me and I smiled back. Under the table, I felt him reach over and place a hand on my knee. I rested my hand on top of his and gave a gentle squeeze. Even if I returned to London, I would always look back fondly on my time at Golden Gateway.

* * *

After several more rounds of board games, the most hostile game of UNO I’ve ever taken part of, Alfred challenging Feliks to more than ten rounds of Dance Dance Revolution (never once claiming victory), and a few attempts to get me on the dancing mat (to which I virulently refused), we finally called it quits a little after 3am. I yawned as I leaned back into Alfred’s comfortable passenger seat. “Thank you for inviting me. This was fun.”

“If you’re okay with staying up past dawn,” Alfred began, taking his eyes off the road just long enough to look at me, “would you like to do something a little more romantic?” he asked as we drove along dark, quiet roads.

“You mean, go back to your apartment?” I quirked an eyebrow and my cheeks flushed.

“No, no, not my apartment,” he assured as his face bloomed. If he didn’t have both hands on the wheel at that moment he would have frantically been waving them in denial. “I mean, that would be nice, but, well…” he was tapping the steering wheel now as he trailed off. “There’s someplace even more magical I’d like to show you.”

Despite the late hour, more time with Alfred sounded nice. I leaned my head back on the headrest and closed my eyes. “I do hope you’re not planning to drive us all the way to Disneyland.”

Alfred chuckled. “Nah, I was saving that for the second date.”

I smiled despite myself at the thought of spending more evenings like this with Alfred. “Well, I think I could spare a few more hours. My only plan for tomorrow is catching up on sleep.”

“This’ll be worth it,” he promised, though he didn’t elaborate.

We passed the time in companionable silence. I could imagine more weekends like this. Visiting friends and playing board games. Traveling along Highway 1 and enjoying the gorgeous ocean views. Relaxing at home with a cup of tea and a book while Alfred read snippets from particularly bad manuscripts. I smiled to myself.

“I’m gonna grab some coffee,” Alfred announced as we turned into a 24/7 gas station near the freeway. “Do you want anything?”

I shook my head, and my eyes followed Alfred as the he walked up to the shop, the automatic doors swallowing him up. As I watched my ex-boss and current date pick out a candy bar before he even made it to the coffee counter I found myself smiling. What decisions had I made until now that led me to this exact moment? Sitting in gas station parking lot at nearly four in the morning contemplating my life as Alfred contemplated whether he wanted one sugar or two. In front of me lay a road that forked in two completely different directions. The hardest part was that _both_ routes seemed like good options. The bigger question was, what was my final destination? My entire train of thought ultimately brought me back to literature as it so often did. In my sleepy stupor I was reminded of a passage I had read many times over as a child. Upon encountering the Chesire Cat in Wonderland, the puzzling feline once told Alice that the path you take hardly matters if you don’t know where you’re trying to go. But even if I didn't know my destination, I still intended to enjoy the ride.

Alfred returned a few minutes later with a cup and an unusually sour look on his face. “Ugh, this is awful,” he explained. “It tastes like sludge.”

“Sounds like grounds for a complaint,” I replied dryly.

Alfred nearly snorted coffee out of his nose. Shoulders shaking with laughter, he set the coffee into his cup holder. “Was that intentional?”

“Of course. I specifically looked up a number of coffee puns as a means to impress you. How am I doing?”

He smiled at me, as he put the gearshift in reverse and looked over his shoulder. “Thanks, Arthur. You know, nothing’s hotter than coffee puns.”

I sighed. “I don’t know why I got you started. On a completely unrelated note, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Alfred hummed in consent as he signaled us out of the gas station, onto the dark, local road.

“My understanding of American Thanksgiving is that most people spend it with their families. So how is it that I find myself here?” Alfred quirked a brow and I realized how selfish my prior comment had sounded. “Rather I mean, why is it that you’re not spending it with your family? Not that anything’s wrong with that. I myself can’t stand my brothers as you know.” I blathered incessantly for a few more moments before my mind finally put the brakes on my mouth. “Oh bother, I’m not particularly eloquent at anytime past 9 PM.”

Alfred chuckled as he pulled us back onto the freeway. “You sound like Pooh Bear!” I flustered a bit at that and turned to rest my warm face against the window. “But, no worries, it’s a fair question. My folks are in So Cal now and I honestly just hate flying around Thanksgiving. Holiday crowds really make traveling miserable. I mean last year when I went down to meet them, the line to get through TSA was longer than than the actual flight!”

I snorted. “I see.”

He kept his eyes on the road. “So, if you don’t mind _me_ asking… do you miss your family? Besides your brothers, of course.” I felt as if he hadn’t quite gotten everything he wanted to say out yet so I waited a moment and then, uncertainly, Alfred asked what was really on his mind. “Do you want to go back to England?”

I sucked in a breath. He glanced over and gave me a look of concern. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s a valid question. There’s no point in wasting time with me if I’m just going to pack my bags before the year is out.”

Alfred’s reply was genuine and instantaneous. “Time with you is never wasted.”

As cliche as it sounds, my heart stopped with those words. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing, instead choosing to watch the California scenery blur as we drove by. Gentle hills rolled past as we made our way north. The soothing motion of the car and the lateness of the hour conspired to lull me into a half-doze. I nodded off and before I knew it, we had reached the Golden Gate Bridge and were crossing over. Even in the wee hours of the morning, there was traffic. I determinedly kept an eye open as we crossed it. The bridge lights were beautiful at night, casting a golden glow over the dark ocean below.

I feel asleep again in the passenger seat and didn't awaken until Alfred gently nudged my shoulder. I blinked open my eyes to find that we had pulled over onto a vista point with a view of the city. In the distance, I could make out the pale, pink fingers of dawn. It seemed that Alfred’s romantic surprise was watching the sun rise over San Francisco. We watched and waited. The light grew brighter as the sun crested the horizon, bathing the city in an orange blaze.

“It’s lovely,” I murmured. “Maybe you should be in the romance division.”

“Nah. Liz says I like clichés too much.”

“And cheesy pick-up lines.”

He smiled at me. “Arthur, are you tired?”

“A little bit,” I admitted. Staying up all hours of the night during university never used to faze me, but I was hardly as young as I used to be.

“Cuz you’ve been running around my mind all night.” I groaned, but it only seemed to encourage him. “I’ve got more where that came from!” he promised. “Do you be—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish his next line. My heart had settled on its decision back in the gas station parking lot, even if it took my head time to catch up. Both were in agreement at that moment on what I needed to do next. I leaned over the center console, turned Alfred’s head to face me, and muffled his words with my lips. After a moment of surprise, he closed his eyes and eagerly kissed back. His hand brushed the nape of my neck and my skin tingled. As the sun rose in the distance across the bay, we leaned closer and deepened the kiss.

“Wow,” Alfred said, a little breathless when we finally pulled apart. “I didn’t realize you liked pick-up lines that much.”

“I don’t. I decided kissing you was the best way to make them stop.”

“So what does this mean?” he asked with a hopeful gaze.

I didn’t know what the future would hold for either of us. But in the short term, I had an answer. “It means I’ll have to tell Pendleton I’ve had a better offer,” I said with a smile.


End file.
